Winter Shall Howl at the Walls
by srncq
Summary: A Blackwater AU.
1. Chapter 1

Sansa entered the room, pushing the door closed behind her, and stood for a moment with her back to the door, letting her head knock against the heavy oak. Her knees sagged a little as the enormity of this night washed over her. With her eyes closed, she sent a silent prayer to the Gods, pleading for deliverance from whichever swarming, murderous horde ended the night victorious.

She wished her father were here. Or Robb. Or Loras Tyrell, or even Jon Snow, or anyone who could shield her from Stannis' justice or Ser Ilyn Payne's silent, gleaming alternative. She whimpered, and opened her eyes to see her chambers in greenish darkness - but for the window, which was a bright, jade rectangle of seething horror.

Terrified, but feeling somehow drawn toward the faint screams of men and horses and steel, Sansa crossed to her window, and her lips parted in shock. Outside, far away - and yet far, far too near - the world was on fire. Land, ships, water, men - all were ablaze. Sansa had heard that wildfire did not discriminate, but the reality was more horrifying than anything she could have imagined. The areas where the fire had not reached were no better. It seemed that the whole of King's Landing had become a maelstrom of roaring violence, a chaotic race toward defeat for everyone involved. A tear slipped down Sansa's cheek, unheeded.

In the forgotten darkness of her chambers, there was a sudden movement. Sansa whirled around to face the sound, hands trembling violently as she gripped the ledge of her window. _I bolted the door, I bolted the door - Oh Gods, did I bolt the door?_ A mad, half-formed thought darted across her mind: it would not do for a Stark of Winterfell to die huddled and shaking against the wall. Raising her chin and forcing herself to stand alone, Sansa drew herself up as the figure raised itself unsteadily from her bed. He was big, too big, far too big - it was the _Hound_. Sansa's eyes widened in surprise as he moved towards her, thoughts tripping over one another and scrambling into nothing as she tried to search for something to say. _Was he sleeping on my bed?_

The Hound advanced in a great hulking mass of armour and blood, and Sansa saw his face for the first time as he stepped into the poisonous green light. His black hair was plastered to his face with sweat, and she thought perhaps his nose had been broken. He had sustained a deep gash above his eye. The burned side of his face was covered entirely in dark, crusting blood, partially masking his terrible scars. But far, far worse than the scars were the eyes. Silver and glinting like a blade, they narrowed upon Sansa, full of anger and heat and the mad, feverish kind of drunkenness which could drive a man to do anything. _Perhaps his blood is up like the Queen said and he is come to rape me_. Sansa realised that she could not look away from him, and as the smell of blood and sweat and vomit and fire and fear which emanated from him surrounded her, she found her eyes upon his face once more. They looked at one another for a long moment, Sansa's breath coming rapidly and Sandor Clegane's rasping out from under his chest plate. Then, quick as a sword from a sheath, he grabbed Sansa's wrist and wrenched her around so that her back was pressed against his chest. A huge, calloused hand which tasted of iron was clamped over her mouth. His hot breath tickled her neck. "If you scream I'll kill you. Believe that."

She did believe it, and yet it had not entered Sansa's head to scream. The Hound hated her chirping, and who would she scream for anyway? Her wrist hurt. She tried to twist it out of his grasp, knowing it wouldn't work. Instead, the Hound drove her to the bed and deposited her clumsily on it, so that he stood imposingly over her as she she sat as primly as their proximity would allow upon the edge of the mattress. She badly wanted to ask who was winning the battle, but she was afraid of the answer. "I thought...I thought you would be leading the sorties, Ser."

"Bugger the sorties. Half my men were killed or wounded and the other half were not fools enough to try to fight fire with swords."

Of course. He's afraid of fire. He's _afraid. _"But-the king…" maybe Joffrey was dead. She couldn't see another way the Hound would desert him.

"Fuck the King. I'm going."

"Going?"

The Little Bird repeats whatever she hears. Going, yes."

"Where will you go?" The Hound scared her, but it could not be good news for her if he was to leave King's Landing. He was all that stood between her and Joffrey, he said it himself, and he never lied.

"Away from here. Away from the fires. Go out the Iron Gate, I suppose. North somewhere, anywhere."

"But...then why did you come here?"

"You promised me a song, Little Bird. Have you forgotten?" His hand came heavy down upon her shoulder and gripped her hard.

"I can't...let me go, you're scaring me."

"Everything scares you. Look at me." He brought his hand up around her neck, his thumb pushing up her chin.

And she did look at him, because it wasn't true - not everything scared her, not since they had cut off her father's head and made her watch and not since she'd been beaten and stripped, and especially not since the battle of the Blackwater had come in through her window. She tried to wake the blood of the wolf in her veins. Sansa looked at him long and true, and saw that he was not as angry as he was afraid or sad or desperate. He looked back.

"I could keep you safe," he rasped. "They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them."

Sansa closed her eyes to keep another tear from escaping, because it was all so hopeless. Surely he would not really take her North and keep her from harm? Cersei's earlier words from the ballroom echoed back to her now. All she knew of life she learned from singers. Perhaps he would sell her or kill her instead.

"Still can't bear to look, can you?" The Hound's voice brought her back to her chambers as he shoved her down upon the bed, leaning heavily over her. "I'll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said." He brought his dagger up and laid it across her throat, pressing hard enough that Sansa wondered if he was drawing blood. He was mad, she couldn't sing now, you don't sing when the world outside is a hell and you're covered in blood and there is a knife at your neck. _I could keep you safe. A hound will die for you, but never lie to you_.

Slowly, without quite knowing what she was doing, Sansa raised her hand to the one which held the dagger and laid it gently over his. _And he'll look you straight in the face_. She made herself raise her eyes once more to his. "You won't hurt me."

Slowly, softly, she gripped his hand and brought it away from her throat, never looking away from him. Something in Sandor Clegane's manner seemed to falter, and he let her move his arm. "No, Little Bird, I won't hurt you." His voice cracked. The anger in his grey eyes had broken too, and now he simply looked lost. Without thinking, Sansa moved her hand up to his bloodied, burned face, and cupped his cheek. At the same time, the Hound had straightened and lifted Sansa to an upright position, so that without warning his hands were around her back and hers were on him, one stroking his face and the other gripping the fabric at his shoulder to steady herself. Their faces were much closer together than Sansa had intended. Her breath caught in her throat.

For a long moment, they regarded one another silently, wide deep blue into narrowed flinty grey, as the cries of dying men sounded outside. A flash of orange light brought the Hound's face into sharp relief, and he was roused to movement. Releasing Sansa and turning his back on her, she watched as he ripped the stained cloth of his Kingsguard cloak from his shoulders and tossed the material gently onto her lap. Sansa bowed her head, twisting her fingers into the folds of the garment. _How strange that his cloak was so white and pure such a short while ago. Like me. _It was almost funny. Another tear rolled down her cheek as she heard the Hound scraping back the bolt she had locked herself in with.

"Wait."


	2. Chapter 2

Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy of leaves overhead. Though there was a crisp note to the day which suggested autumn was in the air, the evening was still warm enough, and the birds sang so loudly that they could not possibly have noticed. She reclined on the ground, leaning on her elbows, and craned her neck back to feel the fading warmth of the sun upon her face. For the first time since she could remember, she allowed herself a small smile. Alone in the forest as she was, the world seemed a distant and trifling thing.

"You're fit to break your neck that way, girl." Sandor Clegane's rasp came from the undergrowth behind her, as he emerged into the clearing swinging two pigeons nonchalantly in his hand. Startled, Sansa shot up, blushing. She had assumed she would hear his return, and had not thought to be caught in such an unladylike position.

The Hound settled himself down at the fire she had been supposed to be watching, and set to plucking the birds in silence. He did most things in silence, and seemed to like it that way. Sansa had given up her faltering attempts at pleasant conversation a very short way into their journey. Her very presence seemed to drive the Hound to gruffer irritability than normal, and she couldn't help but wonder why he'd taken her at all.

The night of the Blackwater was a nightmarish blur. What lingered in Sansa's mind most clearly were the smells: the burnt, acrid stench of the air all around the Blackwater Bay - and, from behind her, the human stink of the Hound: blood, sweat, vomit - and wine. She hadn't dared to look at him in the eerie light of the dying battle, hadn't dared to tell him the iron force of his arms around her was hurting her, had hardly dared to breathe under the cloak he had thrown unceremoniously over her. But somehow it had worked, they'd ridden out the Iron Gate like he said they would, and now the green-and-orange glow of the Blackwater had given way to dappled yellow sunlight, and the stench of the battle had turned to the musky, familiar smells of horse and woodsmoke. Sansa could still not quite believe that she was no longer in King's Landing.

Certainly the food left much to be desired, she mused as the Hound grunted and tossed one of the cooked birds onto her knee, and the company was worse, and yet Sansa was unable to stop a wild, stomach-churning excitement welling up in her when she allowed herself to pause and consider that she was free. Or she would be, when they got to Riverrun and she was ransomed back to her mother and brother. She could not help feeling a childish sort of gratitude towards Sandor Clegane, despite the fact that he'd taken her for his own reasons and was, she supposed, acting entirely in his own interest.

Still, it was this gratitude which prompted her - after they had finished their wordless meal and Sansa had done her best to wash her hands in the nearby stream - to clear her throat and turn shyly to the Hound. "Beg pardon, Ser, but the-the wound above your eye..."

The Hound grunted. "What of it?"

"Don't you think it ought to be cleaned and bound?"

"I think _you_ ought to be bound if you don't hush your peeping."

Sansa flushed, annoyed. But perhaps it was her own fault. After all, she'd never expressed her gratitude to him properly, and this was the second time now he'd saved her life without her thanks.

"I could...clean it, if you'd like."

A snort. "What does a high Lord's get like you know of tending wounds?"

"I know enough," countered Sansa, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Enough to know that if you don't clean it you'll wish you had." This was true: Maester Luwin had often had her watch him as he treated Arya's worse cuts, to teach a lesson about carelessness, though it had not been Sansa who required it.

Sandor chuckled. "Do what you will, then," he answered. "There's a wineskin in the saddlebag."

Once she had fetched the wineskin, Sansa realised she was not quite sure what to do - after all, at Winterfell there had always been a wealth of suitable equipment with which to treat injuries. In the forest, there was a distinct lack of such. _Stupid_, Sansa thought.

She stood fidgeting with the wineskin, desperately trying to work out what he expected her to do. After a long, quiet moment, the Hound growled and snatched the wine from her, upending his helm onto the fire as he did so. Pouring a little in, he turned back to Sansa, slipping his dagger out of his belt at the same time. She took a step back. Growling again, he grabbed her hand and pressed the handle of the knife into it, motioning her to sit down. She quickly obeyed. After another moment's pause, during which the Hound only stared at her, it dawned on Sansa that he expected her to cut strips from her dress. She blushed again, bowing her head and quickly setting to work. It was only a simple woolen dress, suitable for travelling, but Sansa was dismayed all the same. It wouldn't be proper to go about with her skirts at an indecent length. But once again, she thought, it was her own fault.

She arranged the strips into a neat pile as the Hound removed the helm from the fire, the wine within boiling now. Sansa immersed most of the fabric into the hot liquid and reserved a few for the stream, dousing them in cold water. Nervously, she approached the Hound, not knowing where to put herself. In the end, she had to resign herself to kneeling between his outstretched legs, as he didn't seem inclined to move them for her sake. She took a breath and leaned in, gently touching the wet cloth to the cut. It was deeper than she'd thought. Slowly, tenderly, she wiped away the crusted blood and dirt from the wound, glancing as often as she dared at the Hound's face as she did so. His expression never changed from one of stoic grimness.

When she had removed as much of the mess as possible from his forehead, Sansa turned to the wine-soaked cloth. She raised it to his face, and dabbed clumsily at the wound. The Hound jerked and growled. "Careful, damn you, girl."

Sansa's frustration boiled over. "It wouldn't hurt so much if you would keep still!"

He only glared at her. Determined, she brushed his hair back from his forehead, trying to hold his head in position at the same time. She dabbed again, as gently as she could. This time, he narrowed his eyes but remained still. Sansa shuffled closer, pressing more intently against the gash, and allowing herself a proper look at his face. His scars were mottled and uneven upon his skin, like raw meat, and blackened in places. They trailed down the side of his left cheek and onto his neck. From her position slightly above him, she could clearly see the molten stump of his ruined ear. _His own brother. _She felt a rush of pity for him, and her hand fell still upon his forehead. Her eyes traced the rest of his face, searching for - something. Some kindness maybe. Finally, she brought her eyes to his, only to find he was already staring at her. She opened her mouth, not knowing what she should say. Frozen under his gaze, she realised he'd seen her inspecting his face as though he were some curiosity at court. "Beg pardon, Ser-"

"Finished?" She knew from his tone that she was. "And spare me your 'Ser's," he spat, standing up suddenly and leaving her in an ungraceful pile on the ground. Striding to the fire, he dumped the ruined wine over it and spat again, turning to Stranger to unload their bedrolls. Sansa squeaked as he threw hers at the ground next to her, and burrowed wordlessly into it with her face burning. The Hound lay some distance away.


	3. Chapter 3

The question was pressing itself at her lips, daring her to ask him. She had been turning it over in her mind for hours - days, really - and still she could not find an answer which seemed to fit. _You are a woman flowered now,_ she chastised herself. She had known that the Hound had been stinking drunk when he came to her the night of the battle, so she should have known that his winesickness the next day would only be the physical manifestation of his regret at taking her. But she hadn't thought, because she was desperate and afraid, _and stupid, stupid, stupid_. Each jolt of the horse emphasised the word, and the Hound's mail seemed to jingle with it, taunting her.

And now she was paying for her stupidity. She had never met a man so angry as the Hound in her life, and he was angrier now than ever before. Her very presence seemed to aggravate him, though she tried her best to keep quiet and stay small in the saddle and complain little. The previous afternoon, he'd even threatened to cut off all her hair when they made camp. "Too noticeable for my liking," he'd rasped, looking her up and down. "You stink of a Tully, and no mistake." Sansa had never heard her looks described as an insult before, and it rankled. But she hadn't had the nerve to point out that the Hound was rather conspicuous himself, and there were as many men wanted him dead as her. More.

But in the quiet of the woods skirting the Gold Road, it didn't seem to matter. They had barely met a soul in their long days of riding, and none that the Hound thought worth killing. "A battle like that, there'll be chaos for days. More, if Stannis prevailed," he told her. "They'll come looking soon, lions or stags, but they won't spare men enough to capture a traitor's daughter, and they'll take the Kingsroad, likely, maybe the Gold. As I see it, doesn't make much difference either way if you're tucked up tight in the Red Keep or killed in a ditch next to me. Your little wolf sister's been gone these past months - dead, I'll wager - and it didn't concern your high lords and knights overmuch. They'll still bargain with you as if you were theirs."

It was the most he had spoken since he had ridden out with her, and he seemed to be talking to himself as much as Sansa. She was shocked at his evaluation of the situation. She swallowed back a lump in her throat at his mention of her sister, and a retort at the idea that the Lannisters were _her _lords, but took comfort from the fact that she had taken into account something which he had missed. Perhaps she was learning. "Arya wasn't the King's betrothed. They'll have to find me, won't they?"

The Hound looked down at her for a moment, surprised, and then his face split into a mismatched guffaw. Sansa turned to face him as best she could, quizzical. "Seven Hells, Little Bird," he chuckled, "You don't _truly _believe that they'll still marry you to him? Even for a little fool like you, that's naive."

Sansa couldn't breathe. It couldn't be true, surely it couldn't be true? That she wouldn't have to marry Joffrey? She dared not believe it. If she wasn't to marry the king she was as good as free, she was only traitor's blood, perhaps they would not even look for her. She schooled her expression into passiveness, not allowing herself to feel the mad thrill inside her stomach, birds in her chest. "I see," was all she said, her voice trembling.

Sandor Clegane's grin died on his face. "If you're dismayed by that, girl, then you're a greater fool than Cersei says."

"N-no, Ser, I…" _I love the king, my father was a traitor, my brother is a traitor, I love the king with all my heart_. "I'm glad." It felt daring and foolish to say it, even in the depths of the forest with only another traitor to hear. A feeling of weightlessness overtook Sansa, and she felt as though she could leap from the saddle and run alongside Stranger forever without losing her breath. Sandor Clegane said nothing. In her excitement, Sansa felt kindly towards him once more. He wasn't such a monster. The question bubbled up in her throat again, and this time she did not stop it. "Why did you take me? Your tourney winnings surely mean you could not want for gold, and you gained nothing by deserting Joffrey."

It hung in the damp air, bald and bold. Still, the Hound said nothing. The dread sensation that she had misspoken terribly crept over her once again.

"I-I didn't mean to pry, Ser, only…"

"Might be I wanted the gold. Might be I wanted the glory. Might be I wanted to fuck you bloody. Might be I don't mean to give my reasons to a peeping little bird like you who begged for someone to save her."

_I did not beg. I am a Stark._

"Why are you so cruel?"

The Hound chuckled again, mirthlessly and cold this time. "How do you like your new cage, Little Bird? It's much bigger than the last."

They rode on in silence, Sansa blinking back tears as the ache in her back and thighs pounded harder.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you for the kind reviews. They mean a lot. I should also point out that the title for this fic comes from Ben Howard's "Promise", a song whose lyrics put me in mind of several elements of asoiaf.**

Still they carried on. Now, though, they were deep into the wood, and the gushing streams trickling off from the Blackwater Rush had for the most part given way to nothing but more trees. The Hound had decided that it would be best to avoid Stoney Sept and the surrounding areas, as they had declared neither for Joffrey nor for Robb. Sansa had to swallow her silent disappointment at this, wishing inwardly that the Hound might see fit to let them pass just one night at an inn. Her back ached from tossing and turning every night on her thin bedroll, and she could barely remember what it felt like to be warm. The thought of a hot bath was almost enough to make her weep. She couldn't begin to imagine how she must look. _Arya would choke herself laughing if she could see me now. _Each evening as they dismounted, she did her best to make herself presentable; running her fingers through her matted, dirt-darkened hair and rubbing hopelessly at the stains on her dress and cloak. But it was no use. She even _smelled_, though not so badly as the Hound. She wondered if he'd noticed.

As they hunched over the fire one chilly night, tearing apart stringy chunks of charred rabbit, she had felt Sandor Clegane's eyes upon her. Having tried to eat the meal with her hands, and met with little success, she was self-conscious. "Is something the matter, Ser?" she asked.

"Not a Ser, I've told you. And you look half a wildling, the state you're in, so those empty courtesies of yours are even more misplaced than usual." But there was humour in his growl. Sansa chewed her lip, glancing furtively at him every few seconds as she tried to word her request.

"Spit it out, girl," the Hound commanded.

"Well, I...do you think we might stop at an inn one night? If we find one? Only it's been so long since I've slept in a real bed, and I could...well, we could both benefit from a bath-"

That made the Hound laugh. "Well, I'll grant you that's certainly the politest way I've ever been told I stink. Not that you're much better." He leaned forward and _sniffed_ at her. "Aye, might be you need one. And the Gods know I need wine." He'd long since swallowed the last of it, and his manner had not improved for the lack of it. He sucked at a bone for a moment, considering.

"Aye. I'll wager we can pass one night," he conceded. "One." He pointed the bone at Sansa in warning, seeing the look upon her face at his answer. "But we're in the southern Riverlands now, girl, and this is unsure territory - for both of us. You'll follow every word I say, and obey every order, or I'll gift you to the first starving, murderous raper we meet. And that won't take long."

Sansa glowered at him from under her eyelashes, but nodded her assent. "Thank you, Ser."

"Seven Hells, Little Bird, do I have to prove to you I'm no knight before you drop your 'Ser's?" His voice was threatening.

Sansa, who had by now seen the Hound turn his back on her and make water almost where they sat more times than she could number, was well aware that he was no Aemon the Dragonknight. And yet, she doubted he'd let her come to harm while she was his…. _Captive. Ward. Ally. _Well, while she was with him, anyway. "You wouldn't."

The Hound faced her. "What did you say, girl?"

"I said you wouldn't. I don't think you would, I mean. You said you would keep me safe."

His eyes bored into the side of her head. Sansa continued to stare into the dying fire, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Are you mad? Was it another man who held his knife to your throat?"

"No. Another man might have used it."

"You speak too free, girl. Mind yourself." His voice was a quiet, menacing growl.

Sansa finally faced him, cheeks flushed with anger. "Well, it is true that I do not know a knight who would be insulted at the idea that he would not murder a _woman_, and that you are rough, and crude, and hateful-" She took a shaky breath, seeing the Hound's eyes widened and dangerous upon her face. "But-but I have never known you to lie, _Ser, _and you told me that you would not hurt me. Is it so terrible that I believe you?"

The fire popped and crackled in the silence. Sandor Clegane's eyes raked her face. His mouth twitched. Moments passed.

"And…" Her courage was failing her now, and she had spoken out of turn and landed herself in trouble again, fool that she was. But the words tumbled out nevertheless. "And the men in King's Landing who _are _knights are the vilest brutes I have ever chanced to encounter, and so perhaps you are no Ser, but you are in some ways, I suppose... the truest...truest knight of them all." Her face felt aflame. It was just like her to try to make everything into a song. Silly, naive, idiot _bird_.

And still Sandor Clegane said nothing. Sansa dropped her eyes to her hands, twisting and untwisting in her lap. _At least he isn't laughing at me_, Sansa thought.

After several minutes of painful silence, during which Sansa did not dare to look up, She heard the Hound move off towards the saddle bags lying by his exhausted horse. She did not raise her eyes even as her bedroll landed beside her with a soft _thump_, nor when he rasped: "Go to sleep, girl," in a more hushed tone than usual.

She quickly did her best to obey, glad of the excuse to turn her back on him. But her eyes remained open for a long time after she had crawled into her meagre little bed. Though she couldn't see him, she knew the Hound was not abed. Staring unseeingly at the trunks of trees a little distance away, she listened to his snuffly movements at the fire, and it was a long time later that she fell asleep to the sound of him unpacking his bedroll, with the stars above them winking coldly.


	5. Chapter 5

When she woke, the light in the forest was still a bluish grey, and the Hound was up and tending to Stranger. Sansa shut her eyes and remained curled on the ground for as long as possible, until she was nudged gently with his foot. "Little bird," he grunted. "Daylight."

Sansa moaned softly and sat up, looking forlorn. Tears pooled in her eyes."Please," she whispered, "I'm not sure I can ride much longer." Her muscles ached near as badly as they had after the Kingsguard beatings, and she had never been so exhausted.

The Hound regarded her from his great height. _He really is intimidating. _"Should come to an inn before evenfall. Near enough to Pinkmaiden now. We'll stop."

If it had been another man, Dontos, maybe, Sansa would have kissed his cheek in gratitude. But that was as like as anything else to raise Sandor Clegane's temper against her, she reasoned.

She straightened, making a feeble attempt to smooth out the wrinkles of her dress with her hands, while Sandor packed the great black horse. He mounted in one fluid movement, motioning for her to follow. Nervous of Stranger, and in any case too small to mount by herself, Sansa had to be lifted. It was a slightly uncomfortable part of the routine into which they had fallen, morning and evening, and both invariably endured it in silence. Massive, calloused hands lifted her at the waist, ans Sansa kept her eyes downcast as she was maneuvered onto Stranger. Suddenly, though, her foot slipped in the stirrup, and her ankle twisted. She gave a small cry of pain, and the Hound grabbed her jerkily. "Careful," he muttered. Sansa met his eyes as she gripped his shoulders. "My thanks, Se-" she blushed. She was always blushing.

Sandor's mouth twitched, but he said nothing. As she righted herself in the saddle, Sansa winced. It felt as though every part of her hurt. She'd always avoided riding at Winterfell and in King's Landing as much as she could, and she regretted it bitterly now. In stark contrast to her own weak state, it seemed the Hound would have no trouble living his entire life in the saddle. _Gods, _she was tired. _Perhaps I could_… Tentatively, she leaned back a little, just barely allowing her shoulders to graze the Hound's chest plate. When he did not react, she moved closer again, until she leaned lightly upon him. Shyly, she twisted around, gazing up to determine whether Sandor Clegane was like to throw her from the saddle for her presumption. But if he had noticed her leaning upon him, he showed no sign of it. He sat upright, staring straight ahead with the reins tightly in his hand. Sansa relaxed a little, letting her head drop against him.

But after a minute, she found that her head was rattling unbearably against his armour with every jolt of the horse- _if he didn't notice before he's sure to now_ \- and her shyness and discomfort prompted her to shift forward once more, straining instead to see stone walls amongst the trees.

Finally, _finally_, the Hound nudged her. "There you go, girl," he said. Sansa looked up. In the distance ahead, a squat thatched building sat, with a few mangy chickens and a black pig scratching at the dirt outside. The roof looked to be in a bad state of disrepair, and the stables smelled suspicious even from where they were, but Sansa had never seen anything so homely in her life. She closed her eyes, smiled. "Thank the Gods."

"Thank Stranger," muttered the Hound. As they approached, a thin boy with a broken arm who looked more poorly fed than the pig trotted out to meet them. "Take yer horse, M'lord?"

"Aye," Sandor sighed, dismounting quickly and turning to Sansa. Even leaning over to be helped down seemed like an exhaustive effort. As the Hound gripped her around the waist and made to lift her once more, she gave an involuntary sob of pain. Her thighs and buttocks burned, and there were daggers in her ankle. The Hound frowned. "You're alright, girl," he murmured. "Saddle sore is all." Without further warning, he heaved Sansa over his shoulder, gripping her uninjured ankle with one hand and her upper thigh with the other, and striding into the inn as if she weighed no more than a feather. Sansa was left upside down, an absurd distance from the ground, and too surprised to cry any more, gazing instead at the scrawny little stable boy through her clouds of dirty hair, who only looked back at her and shrugged.

Sansa had little previous experience of inns, and her first impression of this one was severely limited by her compromising position - and yet she could not help but feel that this establishment left much to be desired. Dirty straw was scattered over the packed dirt of the floor, and from what she could see - that being precious little - the inhabitants of the common room seemed a little unsavoury. There was a stale, acidic winestink lingering over the room, and the men occupying it besides. From over his shoulder, Sansa heard Sandor ask for two rooms. "Beg Pardon, M'lord, I'm afraid not," the plump tavern girl answered, not looking the least bit afraid, or indeed at all concerned whether or not the Hound gave her his pardon. "On'y one room available. Will you and your...companion be wanting it?"

"Fine, damn you," Sandor answered gruffly. Sansa's eyes widened. Somehow, sleeping in the same room as the Hound seemed far more improper than sleeping in a clearing beneath the stars with only him for company, and she sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Mother that Lady Catelyn could not see her now.

She was heaved upstairs by a grumbling Sandor, and eventually deposited on the bed. Scrambling to maintain her dignity and pull down her skirts where they had ridden up, Sansa whispered her thanks.

"Ought to get you a bath. And some food. You'll eat in here," the Hound said, looking critically at her. "Could pass for a Tully bastard in these parts, I suppose, but you've a bloody highborn look about you even with all the muck."

Sansa meant to answer that the Tullys would not have bastards, and if they did they would own them like her Father did Jon Snow, but something made her keep quiet.

"Wait here. I'll have the girl see to you," he continued.

"What will you do?"

"Flay a man alive for a drink, if that's what it takes. Don't leave the room. Be sure to bolt this door after the maid leaves."

And he was gone, leaving Sansa alone and afraid.


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa waited for the plump girl to arrive with the bath, peering around the room as she did so. Though it was by no means luxurious, it was spacious enough, with whitewashed mud walls supported by timber beams. The fireplace was empty, but candles had been lit, giving the room a cosy glow. The mattress on the low bed was straw, which dismayed Sansa, but she supposed that one of down had been too much to hope for. _I musn't be spoilt_, she berated herself. The Hound had warned her at the start of their journey that she was not a lady anymore, not out here in the wild. _And yet, _she thought wistfully, _I am still imprisoned in the same cage as all women of gentle birth_. For a moment, she wished she really was a Tully bastard; bastard free and bastard bold. Then one day she might live her life on her own terms, rather than flitting from one cage to another.

But bastards had cages of their own, she mused as the maid backed slowly into the room and dragged the bath behind her, followed by the scrawny stable boy. And their cages weren't gilded. _If I were a man, I could be free. _But that wasn't true either, she realised. Her father had lived in a cage of duty until it had killed him, and now Robb had been caged as a king. She imagined him as a child, brandishing a longsword with difficulty, his mail sleeves too long for his arms, and wearing a crown too large for his head. Even Cersei was caged, she had admitted as much to Sansa the night of the battle. _Everyone has their cage._ Sansa's thoughts turned to the Hound. It seemed impossible that a man so big and powerful could be caged. _He escaped his, _she thought, thinking of the Lannisters. But that was a lie. Sandor Clegane's cage was within himself, a cage of twisted iron forged by his brother when he had pressed him into the fire. _And the rest of the world added its own bars later. _Sansa imagined the burned boy killing his first man, before King's Landing, before he had lost all of his hope, before he became the Hound. _Perhaps that was some of why he took me away from there. _But that was impossible, and sadder than a song, and it wasn't real.

Sansa looked up to see that the girl had filled the bath while she had been immersed in her reverie, and was smiling curiously at her. Sansa thanked her and bid her leave. She stripped, sinking into the hot water. The warmth was the most delicious thing Sansa could imagine, and she laughed out loud in her relief. A lump of tallow soap scented with cloves and musk had been left behind, and Sansa rubbed it thoroughly over her skin, noting how angular she had become in her short period in the wood. She sank completely under the water, allowing it to slop over the sides and on to the wooden floor. She scrubbed her hair with the same industry as she had her body, and was shocked to see the colour the water had turned. But still, she languished there until the water was cold. When finally the water had nothing left to offer her, she rose and dressed only in a shift.

The maid returned shortly afterward with a meal for Sansa. It was some sort of indeterminate stew, served in a wooden bowl rather than a trencher, but Sansa found she did not care, and wolfed it down in such a manner that she was glad she was alone. Having been supplied with a rough comb, she set to easing out some of the tangles of her hair, and did not stop until she was fighting to keep her eyes open and handfuls of her torn hair lay in clumps on her knee. Finally, she sank into the bed, and was unconscious moments after her head touched the pillow.

She dreamed of Lady. They were in Winterfell, and it was summer, and her wolf ran in the yard, expecting Sansa to follow. This she did, running after the beast and laughing as she tripped over skirts too long for her. Down she ran, following the canine sounds of Lady, down, until suddenly they were at the door of Winterfell's crypts and Lady was scratching, scrabbling at the heavy oaken door which kept the ghosts inside. In the dream, she knew that her father was behind that door, sitting with Ice upon his knee, cleaning and polishing the blade. And he was headless, and he knew that Sansa had killed him. She pulled at the scruff of Lady's neck, commanding her to come away, begging her. But Lady only continued scratching. Terror rose in Sansa's throat, knowing what was to come, and suddenly she was awake, sweating. The scratching noise continued, but it was more of a scraping now. It was the door. _Mother have mercy_, she'd forgotten to bolt the door. She lay on her side, facing away from the door, eyes wide in fear. If some murderer chose to come into the room, she had no way to defend herself. _And if it is the Hound, he will likely murder me anyway for being such a stupid little bird_.

Someone stumbled into the room, the battle with the door won. Sansa could not bring herself to turn around. From the heavy footfalls and the low, rasping breaths, she guessed it was indeed the Hound, but the discovery did not offer her much comfort. _And he is drunk_. She squeezed her eyes shut.

But Sandor Clegane paid her little mind. Crashing around the room, he swore under his breath several times, and Sansa wondered just how much wine he had drunk. When silence fell for a few moments, Sansa could not resist the urge to turn quietly around to face the doorway, and saw that the Hound had his back to her, fumbling with a coin purse. he had stripped himself of all but his breeches. Sansa's lips parted. She had seen men without their shirts before, in the training yard at winterfell, but the Hound was nothing like Jon and Robb, green boys playing at battle in the summer snows. The Hound's torso was muscled and brown and _huge_, and criss crossed with more scars than Sansa had ever seen on a man. Slashes of white and purple marred his skin, back and shoulders and chest and abdomen, and Sansa could not believe it was possible to sustain so many wounds and live.

He turned, shambling around the low-ceilinged room, and poured water from a ewer upon the little table into a bowl, splashing his face. From this new position, he could easily turn to see Sansa at any instant. She closed her eyes again, and tried to sleep, but her body was singing with energy. _Fear_, she told herself, though it was not quite.

Moments passed again, and then Sansa was aware of the Hound standing over her. She kept her eyes closed.

"Little Bird." It was barely more than a whisper. Sansa said nothing, feeling hot and uneasy with the pretense of sleep.

And then the Hound moved over her, and her heart skipped two beats, and then he was tugging at something underneath her, and her head was lolling where she hadn't told it to go. The Hound turned away. Sansa opened her eyes, confused, and then she had to bite back a laugh. He'd taken a pillow, and moved to sleep on the floor, next to the fire.


	7. Chapter 7

It was late in the morning when Sansa woke, and she stretched like a cat, luxuriating in the novelty of a real bed. She felt a sense of unease in the fact that she had risen before the Hound, however, and peered over the end of the bed to check that he was still at her feet. He was, asleep. For half a moment, Sansa wondered if he was dead. _If wine could poison a man, he would have died years ago. _

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and tiptoed barefoot to where he lay, unsure of what to do. She did not want to incur his wrath by addressing him as "Ser" or "My lord", and she was too shy to call him by any other name. "Hound" was cruel. "Sandor" was improper. "Clegane" was wrong. She settled for clearing her throat, so quietly at first that she herself barely heard it. After several attempts at coughing politely near his ear and failing to make any impression at all on his unconscious state, Sansa gave up. Chewing her lip, she edged toward the great mass of man, her arm daintily outstretched. She bent, and lightly touched him.

Nothing happened. Frustrated now, and irritated at the Hound for having got himself into such a state, Sansa moved forward again, and shook his arm roughly. She regretted this course of action quickly when his eyes snapped open, bloodshot and mean, and the same arm she had touched whipped out and grabbed her before he had even turned his head to look at who had woken him. Somehow, he was kneeling on the floor now and so was she, twisting in his grasp. "You're _hurting _me."

Sandor Clegane loosed his grip on her, straightening up and offering his hand to her. He looked disgruntled and sick and a little sheepish. "Haven't you ever heard that you ought to let sleeping dogs lie, girl?"

"No one ever told me anything about _drunken _dogs," she huffed.

Sandor's laugh was a quick, sharp sound. A bark. "Might be you're learning, Little Bird. About time." He looked her over, eyes roving across her figure in her shift, backed by the morning light. She'd forgotten she was so indecent. She tried, pathetically, to hide behind her hair.

"Should have set off earlier. Too far in my cups, damn me. Don't like the company in this place. Three or more who've the smell of lions about them. And it seems there's to be a wedding, so you won't be going to Riverrun, girl."

Sansa met his eyes, startled. "What wedding? Who?" _Surely not mine?_

"Your uncle Edmure. To a Frey. Myself, I'd rather be buggered with a hot sword, but those Tullys are a queer sort for their duty. And honour."

"But…" Sansa didn't understand.

"Your _kingly_ brother, he broke his word. So now your uncle has to pick up the pieces, and the King in the North must dance attendance on the Twins. With his mother." His grin was sardonic and lupine.

"Oh." _Robb wouldn't break his word. But the Hound wouldn't lie._

"We've a long road ahead now, and I'll wager there'll be lions snapping at our heels. Best make yourself ready, Little Bird. You'll like them less than I do."

The land that lay between Acorn Hall and Pinkmaiden was more open and better populated than the areas they had crossed in the South, and war-ravaged besides. Sansa could tell from the set of the Hound's jaw and his white-knuckle grip on the reins that he wasn't happy about it, and Stranger seemed to share his opinion. He kept up a brisk trot for longer than usual. They travelled a rutted mud road, occasionally passing a couple of thin peasants or children. After a few hours, Sansa's teeth had been rattled about in her head so badly that she was afraid they might fall out. She was simply afraid.

They made camp early, next to a cave set in the middle of a hill which spat rocks down to the banks of a gushing river. _It must be the Red Fork_, thought Sansa, but she didn't ask, because the Hound didn't like questions, particularly when things were tense.

As the light of the day began to die, Sandor set off to find food. There were farms nearby, and Sansa was sorry at the thought of poor farmers going without for their sake. But she was hungry, and she said nothing to stop the Hound as he set off. _You can't eat honour. _

"Stay in this cave." He pointed his dagger at her menacingly. "If you move, I'll kill you. If you get lost, someone worse than me will."

"I wasn't _going_ to move." _I've been good, I've never run before. _As Sandor's figure disappeared over the ridge of the hill, Sansa retreated deeper into the cave. She was left alone with only Stranger to protect her, and was restless with the cold fingers of fear around her stomach until Sandor returned.

He carried two chickens in his hand. It wasn't the first time he'd brought birds for supper, but it was the first time he'd brought them alive. He held them by their feet as they flapped their wings frantically. Sitting down at the fire, he turned to Sansa. "Come here. Take this." One of the birds was held out to her. Sansa hesitated. "Take it."

She reached out and grabbed the chicken by its scrawny legs, her hand dwarfed by the Hound's as he released it and moved his hand from underneath hers. "Kill it."

Sansa stared at him. "Please, no, I-"

"Kill it."

"I can't...I don't know - I can't."

"It's easy. Look." He took his own bird, straightened it out almost kindly. Sansa watched him wring its neck. It was dead quick. She looked at him, pleading.

He met her eyes, and stared for a moment, and then said it again. "Kill it."

"Please, Ser, I can't, it's so cruel-"

"You've supped on meat plenty before. Rabbits are killed crueller than that. Better get used to killing unless you want to get used to starving. Do I look like your maidservant, damn you?"

"I never - you didn't have to - you are so hateful." She was nearly crying now. _Blood of the wolf, blood of the wolf._

"I'm the Mother reincarnate compared to what's out here. Believe me, if you meet my brother, you'll be begging to be killed like a little bird before him and his like get started on you."

Sansa swallowed, and looked at him, red eyed and sullen. She broke the bird's neck.

The Hound nodded, and snatched it from her. He plucked it in silence. She hated him.

After they had eaten the birds, him devouring a whole chicken and more besides, and Sansa picking guiltily at a hot, dry breast, the Hound moved some distance away. When he found a fallen tree, he reached over his shoulder and removed the short axe which hung upon his back. He swung it at the damp wood, and again, and again, and a hundred more times. The rain was falling harder than ever now, and Sansa had fled to the shelter of the cave a long time since. Sandor's hair was soaked and hung lank around his face, whipping back when he raised the axe and forward when he struck with it. His face was set in a tight grimace, grey eyes flinty and cold and wild and furious. _He has gone mad, _Sansa thought. There was enough wood for a fire to burn for half a sennight at his feet, and all of it was damp anyway. She watched him, shifting restlessly from her refuge at the mouth of the cave, until she could take it no more. _If he catches a fever from the chill I'll be all alone._

She stood, and took a step. And stopped. And walked towards him. She made sure to speak when she was just out of his reach, in case she startled him and got the axe stuck in her. "Aren't you tired?"

He paused, and wheeled around. His eyes were steely grey, and chilly with anger, but Sansa met them anyway, and kept them in her own stare.

"Don't you want to come in from the rain? None of it will burn." She moved closer, and outstretched her arm. Her hand almost touched his elbow. He was still.

A memory came back to Sansa. At Winterfell, there had been dogs before there'd been direwolves. Some were well fed and kept, but there were others, mangy, mean ones that lurked in the shadows. Sometimes, Sansa had wanted to feed them, wanted to make them love her, but Harwin had looked seriously at her and warned: "Those dogs that have been kicked all their lives, they don't know a kindness when they see it. They're too afraid to bite those who beat them, but you can be sure they'll bite you for not kicking them. Best to leave them well alone, Lady Sansa." _If he bites, at least I'll know it was coming, and I'll know why._

She stepped closer once more, and now she was standing under him, and still he had not moved. _Bite, if you're going to_, she urged inwardly. But she saw his eyes, faltering with that same broken, lost look as he'd had the night of the battle, and saw that he wouldn't bite, and saw that she had won. She took the handle of the axe in her hand, guiding it down. "You can't fight him with a fever." her voice trembled. The axe hung limp in his hand now, nearly touching the ground. Sansa released it, and walked slowly back to the mouth of the cave. She heard the shiny scraping of metal on metal as the Hound replaced the axe, and footsteps as he followed her.

It was minutes after she sat down next to him in the cave that her heart slowed to its normal pace.


	8. Chapter 8

Trying to sleep was useless. The cave was dry, but the ground was hard and uneven, and the rain drummed so hard outside that its noise was unbearable. The only other sound was the Hound's breathing.

She lay with her back to him, the cave demanding that they made quarters far closer together than they would have in the open. Hunched and foetal as she lay, Sansa could tell the Hound was outstretched on his back, and that he was awake. They hadn't said a word since he'd come in from the rain. And so it was with a start that Sansa opened her eyes, long minutes later, to hear him rasp: "Gregor's at Harrenhal."

She rolled over on to her other side, and Sandor's eyes were blank, staring up at the roof of the cave. "The soldiers at the inn, I didn't know them, but they were his men all the same, and they knew me."

"Did you… Did you kill them?"  
"Aye. Meant to bring me to him. Tried to ambush me as I was taking a piss in the trees. didn't work." His face half-formed a sneer, and then dropped.

Sansa searched for something to say, some word of comfort, and found nothing. The Hound _hated_ his brother, everyone knew that, and any man who wasn't terrified of the Mountain was a fool. How awful, she thought, to have such a man for your only family. Suddenly, Sansa felt guilty for speaking so highly of Robb, and for crying for Bran and Rickon.

"I'm very sorry," she whispered.

He turned towards her, not quite comprehending, and said nothing. Their faces were too close together. His scars rippled as his jaw clenched and unclenched. She could see herself reflected in his eyes. A mad urge came to her: the desire to pull his head to her bosom and rock him there, stroke his hair and smooth the anger out from his face and protect the glimmer of gentleness which lived inside him yet with her life. She thought of the blue winter roses at Winterfell, fragile but yet blooming still in the midst of the deepest snows, and she wanted to tell him of their beauty.

But she was too shy to do that, and she was just a silly little girl, and she did not know how to comfort someone whose hurts were so deep and so angry, and who knew so much more of the world than she. An echo of the Blackwater came back to her, and now everything was so different and yet so similar. She reached out a tiny hand and cupped his burned cheek for the second time. He did not move. Under her hand, she felt his jaw bone working still, clenching and unclenching, and her courage deserted her. Sansa removed her hand shyly and turned away, closing her eyes and praying for sleep to overtake her before the Hound could come out with a rebuke.

After a yawning eternity of silence, fatigue won Sansa and her eyes became heavy. Just as she fell into slumber, she heard a rustling of movement, and then there was a soft tug at a lock of her hair.

The clouds had finally spent themselves, and the day was bright and clear. Riding still pained Sansa, but her ankle had improved, and the Hound made sure to remind her of the alternative. "If we stay put, some lion or other will sniff us out, and a sword in your belly hurts worse than an ache in your arse."

"It's been days since we've seen anyone, I'm sure if we just rested for a few hours -"

"I know it's been days. I don't like it. It stinks of dead men out here."

They were skirting around the Blue fork now, avoiding Fairmarket. Unease hung thick in the air,though Sansa wasn't sure if it wafted on the wind or emanated from Sandor Clegane. Either way: Stranger was skittish, Sansa was scared; and Sandor was scowling.

By late afternoon, the Hound had changed his mind. Dead men changed it: the first lay naked and bloated on the bank of the stream, a festering wound on his belly. The second and third were soldiers under a tree, and could have been sleeping if it wasn't for the stink. Sansa turned her head when she saw them, and whispered a prayer to the Stranger. Sandor only said again that he didn't like it, and that they ought to find an inn. "Want to find out who's killing who," he rasped. _And to find wine, no doubt_. But she didn't say that.

They weren't many leagues from Oldstone now, the Hound said, and they found a tavern soon enough. Sansa drew her hood up around her head, and was reluctant to go in, but reasoned that she'd rather be inside with the Hound than outside alone. But as she made to follow him in, Sandor thrust a massive arm out to stop her. "No," he growled. "Wait with Stranger." And she was left in a woody enclave on a hillock in sight of the tavern, twisting the reins nervously in her hands.


	9. Chapter 9

It felt like hours. But the sun never moved in the sky, and not another soul passed Sansa before the Hound came back. He looked grim, and without a word swung himself into the saddle and lifted Sansa after him. He kicked Stranger into a canter, driving him hard and not meeting Sansa's eyes when she asked timidly what was amiss. "We need to be moving, and fast," was all he said. His tone was a warning. Sansa wondered how many dead men he had left behind him this time.

The destrier tired quickly, and was well lathered when Sandor finally slowed him to a walk and led him to a stream, lifting Sansa down. They were back in the woods now. She swallowed nervously. "Are we being followed?" She asked, and her voice was high and thin.

"Might be. Could be. We're not going to the Twins now, Little Bird."

"Not going?"

"Not going, no. At the tavern, there was - the men, the dead men, they were wolves." He paused, and then his voice was rough. "There was a plot. The wedding, your uncle's wedding, it was an ambush. The Freys were in league with the Lannisters. It was a massacre. Sansa, your brother, your mother…" He stared at her. She didn't understand. "They're dead."

Sansa's ears rang. "No they aren't," she said weakly. "It's a mistake, there must have been a mistake, it was only stupid soldiers in a stupid tavern, they don't know, they're alive, they must be, the Freys are our allies." It wasn't real, they weren't dead, but she was crying anyway.

"Little Bird," came the Hound's only answer in a raw voice. Her teeth were chattering. She met his eyes then, knowing that he didn't lie, and saw the terrible truth in them.

She didn't remember falling, but she was on the ground suddenly and she supposed that must have been how she got there. Mother, Mother, her Lady Mother, and _Oh, Robb_. The tears came thick and fast now, and an inhuman wail sounded. it was a moment before she realised it had come from her own throat. She looked wildly to the Hound, who stood silently over her. "Help me," she whispered, and she didn't know why.

Through the tears, she couldn't see his face, but felt as she was lifted and carried to the shade of a tree. As she was set down again, she huddled into herself, arms crossed, and Sandor knelt over her, concern in his face. He gently took hold of her arms, and tried to pull them apart, but she resisted. He walked away then, and she continued to sob. A stink appeared under her nose, and it was Sandor thrusting out a wineskin, and she took it and drank deep. It was a poor comfort, but it seemed to make the Hound numb enough. He sat down next to her as the tears leaked down her cheeks and wine leaked down her chin. "Little Bird," he said again.

They stayed under that tree a long time, and did not move until a rustle from the bushes roused them. It was soldiers. _I don't care, I hope they kill me_, Sansa thought, but she stood up unsteadily and moved behind the Hound just the same. He knew them, she could tell.

"Seven Hells," said one, a lanky beardless man with a reedy whine for a voice. "Didn't think to find a lost pup in these parts."

"Didn't think to be found. Not by you thrice-damned dog's dogs in any case. Never known you to be able to sniff out anything but brothels and winesinks."

A stockier man moved forward, and smiled. "Heard you deserted at the Blackwater. lost your belly for fighting."

"Lost my belly for Lannisters. Kick a dog too many times, might be he'll bite."

"Didn't hear you bit. Heard you ran whining with your tail between your legs." The stocky man was laughing, jolly and sinister. _Stupid, _thought Sansa.

The lanky man laid an arm on the stocky one, warning. The third, behind them, hadn't spoken. He had ugly, hooded eyes. "Seems you were the only Kingsguard worth shit after all, Sandor," smiled Lanky.

Sandor snorted. "Didn't need telling that. I heard the imp did for him."

Stocky nodded. "Poisoned at his own wedding feast." His eyes glinted with glee, and something else. Sansa didn't understand. Her curiosity must have been clear, because the ugly, silent man nodded towards her. "Your wench doesn't seem too pleased to be in your company. Can't say I blame her. Want me to take her off your hands?"

Sandor never flicked an eye at her. "Found her near Fairmarket. She was pleased enough to be given something to eat."

"And given something else to fill her mouth as well, I'll wager." Lanky smiled at her, a thin, reedy smile to match his voice.

"So it's true my brother took Harrenhal?"

"Took, yes. Wasn't much sport, if truth be told. But he's on his way back to King's Landing now. The Queen's sent for him. I'd wager he'd be glad to see you."

The Hound laughed, and drained his wineskin. Wiped his mouth. His hand moved at his side.

And then the swords were out, and it was too sudden, and he was alone, and they would kill him. Sansa stepped back, tripping over her skirts, wide-eyed. The lanky man was quick and nimble, almost dancing around Sandor. The stockier man was more predictable, moving forward, forward, back, forward. The man with the ugly eyes stood back, hand on the pommel of his sword, watching his fellows best the Hound. There was an ugly gash across his right shoulder already. Sansa didn't know how it got there. They moved faster than Sansa could watch, one at the Hound's belly and back, one at his neck and face. With a roar, Sandor brought his sword down with both hands in a wild slashing movement, hacking the stocky man. He fell, his head and part of his neck unsteady on his shoulders. Now the ugly-eyed man joined, and Sandor was flagging. The lanky man danced on, smiling, as the ugly one drove the Hound back, back, towards the tree they had sat under. Sansa wanted to scream. They were going to kill him.

Her mind empty, she wheeled around. _No one is paying any attention to me, I'm just a stupid little bird. _She moved quietly over to the dead man, and avoided his vacant eyes. His sword was still in his hands. Sansa stared at it, deciding, and then reached instead for the dagger in his belt. Still no one looked at her. Gregor's men had their backs to her, and the Hound was a wild-eyed beast of fury, slashing and jabbing and growling. Sansa forced herself to walk towards them, her blood singing in her veins. Somehow, she reached them without fainting, and still they were driving Sandor back, moving slowly away from her. His face was cut now, and the one with the hooded eyes was bleeding heavily from his arm. Lanky danced. The dagger was heavy in her hand as she gripped it, and she was afraid the sweat would cause it to slip out of her hand. But she had to do it, she _had _to, _now now now now NOW Mother have mercy._ The knife slipped into his back, protected only by boiled leather. At first, Sansa wasn't sure it had gone in, but when she yanked it back the blade was red, and that scared her, so she stuck it in again, and a third time. He dropped his sword, and half turned towards her, a surprised look in his eyes, and she stuck it into his belly this time. He fell. The other had slid his ugly eyes over to see his companion die, and the Hound took his chance. He fell a moment later, near cut in half. Sansa dropped the dagger, and fell beside them to her knees. "The King in the North," she said weakly.

Her hands were shaking, and when she looked down, they were as red as the blade had been. She was cold, and crying again. The Hound was staring at her, still half-wild from the battle, and covered in blood. Then his sword was on the ground beside her and he lifted her away, and her hand went over her mouth before she remembered it was slimy with gore.


	10. Chapter 10

The evening sky was the purple of a new bruise. She lay on her back, staring blankly upwards. From a tree just beyond her sight, a flock of birds erupted suddenly, bursting forth into the night, and up, and away. _I wish I really was a bird, free to fly._ But there was nowhere to fly to now, and if she were a bird she would be a starling or a sparrow in a sky filled with hawks.

They had ridden hard for a time after they'd killed Gregor's men, the Hound supporting her as she slumped in the saddle. He'd tried his best to wipe the blood from her hands, but the rusted red lingered. When he'd found a mossy alcove, sheltered from the wind and the eyes of men by a great fallen tree whose roots spread over their heads, he'd pulled her off of Stranger, and carried her to the banks of the stream to clean herself. Sansa had watched dumbly as he'd scoured her palms with his rough knuckles, letting the water bloom pink before it was carried away by the current. _A pity a soul does not clean so easily. _Then he'd thrust a crumpled wad of cloth at her, and turned his back, telling her to change out of her dress. Sansa didn't realise why it mattered what she wore until the dress was off of her and on the ground, and spattered with the smiling man's gore. He'd made a fire and told her to sit, and pushed bread and cheese and wine toward her. She took the wine and picked at the cheese, her stomach roiling. The only human sound was Sandor's knife against the armour on his knee, scraping at rust - and then later, his quiet concentration as he cleaned it. They did not speak. When the Hound laid his bedroll under the uprooted tree, she placed hers neatly next to his, though she was warm from the wine and the fire.

She lay awake still, thinking abstractly, and pressing down images of the dead soldiers and of dead Starks. The Hound lay with his massive back to her, armourless for once.

_The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. _And now she had no pack because they had all left her, one by one. She wondered if her family were in some Northern heaven somewhere, comforting one another with the gentle wisdom that only the experience of death can bring. And it was worse than dying, she thought, to be left alone on the earth, because where was the nobility in that? Jon Snow was the closest thing she had to a pack brother now, she supposed.

Only he wasn't, because she had ever been cold and distant with him, trying to be a proper lady, and now he was on the Wall and had his own pack of black brothers, mangy as they were. So it was the Hound then, the great deep storm who lay beside her. He was all the pack she had, and even he didn't want her most of the time. But he had saved her, and washed the blood from her hands, and tried to show her the truth of the world before she could see it on her own. So she stretched out her hands anyway, and touched him - one on his shoulder-blade and one on his side. She was shocked when he turned, eyes open and molten silver, and faced her without a sneer. "Joffrey's dead." It lay there between them for a while, expectant.

"Oh," was all Sansa returned. _That was what they meant before. _The news didn't shrink the pit in her stomach any, though she supposed she ought to at least have felt some sort of vindication. But Joffrey didn't matter anymore, not since Winterfell and all the Starks had been crushed. _He was only a child, really. A stupid, horrid child, throwing tantrums when he didn't get what he wanted. _Sansa felt a hundred years old, and weary.

"What now?" She asked, afraid of the answer.

Sandor continued to study the leaves overhead. "Don't know. Could take you to your aunt in the Eyrie. Don't know."

"She won't know me."

"She'll know you," he said, looking her over, and didn't say that it was because she looked so much like her mother, though she knew. That made it worse. _I am a poor substitute._

"I don't want to go."

"I know."

She didn't want to tell him, but the words came out nevertheless. "I don't have anyone now, not anymore. Only you."

In the dark, his eyes glimmered as they slid over her face. "I'm sorry for it," he said quietly. "It's a poor pack."

She turned away on her side, to hide the soft tears. "It's better than stupid falcons."

He turned the same as her, to face her back. The tears must have shone in the last of the light, because he touched one with a huge, calloused thumb. She looked her thanks at him through sad eyes. And then he dipped his head, and his rough mouth was on her neck, breathing hot, and his teeth scraped gently and he closed his lips against her skin. It was not quite a kiss, but there was comfort in it all the same, and plenty else besides.


	11. Chapter 11

Sansa woke in the half-light of the morning, in that hour when nature stirs and the forest is ruled by the snuffling, rustling sounds of life; before even the birds have begun to sing. Already, the day was rich with the promise of kind weather, and the Gods even allowed Sansa that bittersweet, weightless moment of waking ignorance, before the memories of the day before came down upon her.

Even still, she hid in her bedroll only a few minutes more before the desire to rise came over her again. Sandor lay motionless, his chest rumbling up and down steadily. Sansa allowed herself the liberty of walking out of sight of the Hound, picking barefoot through mud and foliage. This task, and the strength of the morning light piercing in narrow shafts through the trees, kept her eyes cast downward for some time. Eventually, her toes met soft moss, and she found she was at the entrance to a sun-bathed clearing, canopied by the great, over-reaching trees all around. She looked up, and stopped. In the peace of the morning was a fawn, nibbling at the ground. Sansa gasped softly, and the fawn rose its head to meet her gaze. For a moment (though it might have been hours), one froze staring wide-eyed at the other, waiting. And then the deer turned its head and walked away through the trees, to graze at a patch more perfectly isolated. Sansa released a breath she did not know she had been holding, and turned away in the opposite direction.

She ambled slowly back to their shelter, musing, and when she reached Stranger and the bags dug amongst them for the lump of tallow soap they had taken from the inn so long ago. Glancing toward the Hound, to make sure she had not woken him, she went now to the stream, a little way from their tree, and stripped naked upon a smooth, flat rock. Pausing only momentarily, she lowered herself into the water. Her breath came quick and gasping when the cold hit her, but still she waded further, ducking her head and immersing herself. The cold quickly subsided - or mayhaps now she was numb, but it did not matter - and she found there was a pleasant sensation in the rush of the water, and the tickle of the plants at her feet and ankles. Soaping herself languidly, she stretched backwards into the water so that she was almost floating there, with her hair spread in a cloud of burnt fire behind her.

She examined herself: pale, though there were freckles on her arms now, and her hands had acquired a little of the brown roughness of work. Her belly had hardened and tightened since King's Landing, though her breasts now felt swollen and tender. Her hips, too, flared out from her waist more these days, and her legs were as long and white as ever they had been. She wished her mother could see her now, and be proud of the woman she was becoming. _Mayhaps she can._

Sansa stood up in the water,washing her lower body, and wondered what she must look like to anyone who might chance to pass by. _I look like the fawn, _she thought suddenly. It had been like seeing herself in a looking glass, she realised: both young and lean and nimble and afraid, but more than that, both _belonged. _She was a part of the woods now, as much as the fawn, no longer disconcerted by the noises of the night nor by the inconvenience and rawness of nature. She was hunted like the fawn, but she hunted too: she had killed a bird and killed a man, and would do what she must now to survive. Once, she had belonged in a castle, a lady meant to be tended to and served. But now, she was of the wood. her blood had warmed here, it had awoken; _the blood of the wolf. _Sansa might have wept. How strange, how sweet and sad it was, that it was not until the other wolves of her pack had gone that she had become one of them. It was something bigger than herself, bigger than she knew, and she felt the weight of it settle upon her shoulders. But she could bear it, and would bear it with her head high: she was the Princess of Winterfell and the last Stark now; finally, she felt a Stark for true.

She left the water and bent to retrieve her dress with her hair clinging wetly to the curve of her waist. She washed the sorry garment too, and spread it out to dry upon the rock, then lay on the rock herself to dry. She remained there until the sun was high and warm in the sky, and hunger clawed at her stomach. Reluctantly, she dressed in the damp dress, shivering, and returned to the shelter. Sandor was not there, but Stranger was, and he whickered softly to see her. She helped herself to bread and cheese, and was seated placidly with her fingers combing through her hair when the Hound returned, a fearsome expression writ upon his face. The smile died on her face.

"Seven bloody hells, girl," he snarled. "I've scoured half this damn forest looking for you. Are you as determined as the rest of your fool family to lose your life? What did you mean by leaving here alone?" He shook her roughly.

"I only went to _bathe_," she snapped, blinking back tears. "I didn't go far, I knew it was safe-"

"You know nothing, you stupid girl," he growled. His hands cut into her upper arms, crushing her. "That's how your little wolf bitch sister got herself killed, running off alone like that -"

"You're _hurting _me." She only said it to stop him speaking.

The Hound laughed. "You think that hurts? You go off alone again and you'll soon learn what hurt is." he released her, and spat on the ground near her feet.

Sansa was furious, and ashamed, and wounded; and again the words came out before she knew what they were. "Gods forgive me for wanting to bathe where I wouldn't be _gawped_ at."

There was silence for a moment. The Hound crouched slowly before her, and gripped her hair so that her face was close to his. "So _that's _what it is." His laugh was chilling. "Believe me, girl, if I'd wanted to take you I could have done it half a hundred times by now. Don't think yourself too highborn to be soiled out here. No one cares what you are out here. Not me, no one. Perhaps you ought to have escaped with Ser Meryn if it was a _true knight_ you wanted." He dropped her head and turned on his heel, looking disgusted.

Sansa fought tears again, and lost. She hated him. He was cruel, and sought to hurt her by speaking of her family, and he was a brute. And yet, part of her knew that she had spoken unfairly. The sensation sat uneasily in her stomach, competing with her rage at him. She remembered him covering her with his Kingsguard cloak after she had been stripped in front of Joffrey. But he was so _hateful_. Her hands twisted in her lap.

"I prayed for you," she said shakily, staring down to the stream. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him turn his head. "The day of the battle. I prayed to the Mother that you would be safe, and that she would gentle the rage inside of you." She did not know why she said it, but it was all she had to offer, and part of her wanted to shame him with the truth of it. She looked towards him, and he was staring at her, an inscrutable look upon his face. When he answered her, his voice was raw. "Why? You wasted your breath. The Gods pay no heed to the prayers of men. Why?"

"Because you saved me. And you were the only one who never lied to me. Even my father lied to me."

He took a step towards her. Opened his mouth. Closed it. And then sat, and produced a wineskin from somewhere. "Damn you, girl," he muttered, and drank deep.


	12. Chapter 12

The rest of the morning was passed in uncomfortable silence. Sansa wasted as much time as she reasonably could combing her hair with her fingers, and then braiding and unbraiding it until she felt sure the Hound must think her ridiculous and vain. For his part, Sandor chopped wood and brushed Stranger till he shone, and then sat heavily down with his back to Sansa and set to sharpening his sword with his whetstone. _At least he is making himself useful_. For some reason, this irritated Sansa, so much so that when he gruffly announced that he was going to the stream to fish, she lingered under the great fallen tree only a moment before following him sheepishly.

When she reached the water, Sandor was crouched at the bank, staring intently into the stream. "What are you doing?" She asked curiously.

The Hound turned, and Sansa caught surprise in his eyes before he spoke. "Be quiet," he said in a growling whisper, "Else there'll be none for you to eat." But he motioned for her to sit next to him. As she did so, he lay down on his belly and lowered his hands into the water. Sansa wondered if he was mad.

"Perhaps if you fashioned some sort of weapon, or...or I could fetch your sword…" _he must never have done this before. _

Sandor chuckled softly. "Seven hells, Little Bird, I've never known someone who knows so little to try to teach so much. It's trout in these rivers, and them you don't need any _weapon_ to catch." He chuckled again into the water, shaking his head. "You only need to tickle them."

Sansa gaped. It was hard to imagine that one of the fiercest warriors in Westeros and the most frightening man she had ever met knew much about tickling anything at all, let alone fish. She stared at him.

"You look like a trout yourself with your mouth hanging open like that," he laughed. "Mind I don't mistake you for one." Sansa blushed furiously, but said nothing. After a few minutes the Hound beckoned her to watch his hands. "Here's one." And there, indeed, was a little brown fish, almost perfectly still as the Hound tickled its belly. "You've got to make sure you keep right underneath, and do it nice and slow, elsewise you'll frighten it off. If you do it right, it won't move away from you, and you can take it out with no trouble." Sansa watched, astounded. The Hound's face was etched with concentration, his mouth twitching slightly as his hands moved carefully in the water. His eyes never left the fish. Huge fingers stroked at it gently, almost lovingly, and the trout seemed to be in some sort of trance, never moving from Sandor Clegane's hand.

Suddenly, his grip tightened, and almost before Sansa knew what was happening, the trout was out of the stream and flapping uselessly upon the grass. By the time Sansa had recovered from the fright of his abrupt movement, the Hound was already searching for the next fish.

"Shouldn't you...shouldn't you kill it? And end its suffering?" She asked in a small voice, shocked at the trout flopping and gasping grotesquely upon the bank of the stream.

"Do you feel like bashing its head in with a rock?" He asked. "If so, you have my blessing. If not, try and get one yourself."

Feeling abashed, Sansa lay down next to him, and dropped her hands into the water. It was a while before any fish came near, and she glanced at Sandor every so often, to make sure he was not playing some sort of trick on her. "Keep still," he whispered.

Eventually, one of the ugly brown fish came her way, and she moved her index finger tentatively to stroke it. The trout didn't move. Joyfully, Sansa grinned at Sandor, proud of herself, but he only inclined his head to indicate that she should keep her eyes on the fish. She continued tickling it, until the trout seemed to be in the same trance as Sandor's fish had been. "Good," said the Hound, his breath tickling her ear. "Try and grab it out now, nice and careful." Slowly, Sansa tightened her hands around the fish. But at the last moment, it jerked out of her grasp and lurched forward, causing her to make a wild grab for it. She had it in her grasp for little more than a second, before it flapped again and shot away from her. Lunging after it, Sansa lost her balance, and before she knew where she was had tumbled into the stream, unhurt but gasping at the feel of the freezing water.

Up on the bank, Sandor Clegane roared with laughter. Rolling onto his back, he pounded his fist onto the ground, choking for words. Sansa had never seen him truly laugh before, she realised. His scars rippled and crumpled, making the burned part of his face more unseemly than usual, and his tears ran in little rivulets down the cracks, but the unscarred portion of him looked ten years younger than she had ever seen him. He stretched his hand out to Sansa to help her out, but no sooner had she landed ungracefully on the bank beside him than his howling started up again. Sansa, soaked and stripped of her dignity, wanted to be angry with him, but she found herself bubbling up too, so that both of them lay on the banks of the stream, gurgling until their bellies ached.

"Bugger me, Little Bird," the Hound said, wiping a tear from his eye. "I've never seen the like of that before. You looking so damned highborn and graceful with your hair all hanging down - and then..and then… and your _face_…" And he had lost control all over again, wheezing next to her with his eyes screwed up.

Sansa smiled despite herself, thinking it really _was _quite funny, though she wished he'd stop all the same. While he still had his eyes closed, she darted her arm down to the stream and scooped as much water as she could carry in her hand, and then flicked it as quickly as she was able over him, drenching his face and hair. Now it was her turn to laugh, as his eyes shot open wide and he choked on the stream water, looking bewildered. But her mirth was short-lived, as the Hound rolled over her quick as a snake and pinned her arms above her head with his elbows. "_Now_ you've done it," he grinned, and made to throw her in the water again. But she wriggled away from under him, laughing, and tried to run, before he grabbed her waist and swung her round as she shrieked and pulled at his hands, her voice coming out as a gasp through her giggling. "No," she begged, panting. "Please...no!" and she lost control of her voice again as she was swung closer to the stream than before, fighting to overcome her laughter.

And then there was a strange _whirring_ sound and a little _thunk_, and an animal grunt from the Hound. She was dropped unceremoniously, and turned to see him doubled over, an arrow through his massive shoulder. As the smile was wiped from her face, another arrow came twanging forth, and grazed the side of his neck. Sansa looked up, and saw in the near distance a ragged-looking band of men, staring grimly at the Hound. "Stop!" she called, running towards them, and then halting as a skinny, red-haired youth strung another arrow and aimed it at Sandor. "Dont," she whispered, but then a tall man with an eye patch placed a placatory hand on the archer's shoulder, and beckoned her forward.

She shook with fear as she approached, but she approached all the same. "My lady," said the tall man, "Do not fear. My brothers and I will not let any more harm come to you at the hands of Sandor Clegane."

"Ser," she swallowed. "You misunderstand. He has not harmed me."

A large man with a bushy brown beard and a strange, yellow cloak spat. "Looked to be like he was right in the middle of harming you when we arrived."

Sansa gasped, realising what the situation must have seemed to an ignorant onlooker.

The one-eyed man looked gravely at her. "My lady Sansa, you need not lie to us. We are no friends of the Lannisters, nor of the Hound. We are the Brotherhood without Banners, and we are loyal to no king but King Robert Baratheon."


	13. Chapter 13

**Thank you all again for the lovely reviews. They really are so appreciated. I've had a lot of free time recently (hence the rapid onslaught of updates), but this is probably the last chapter that I will be uploading for a little while. You may notice that some of the timings of events and placements of characters are slightly (or very) wrong, but please bear with me as it's difficult to move the plot on otherwise. Similarly, I have tried as much as possible thus far to leave Sansa's age ambiguous, as I know some people prefer her age to be concurrent with that in the books, whereas others think she ought to be older. Personally, I tend to imagine her as around sixteen, but I don't want to push that on others. Finally, I apologise for the rushed and slapdash nature of some of my last chapters - pure procrastination getting the better of me. I'm pretty unhappy with Chapter 12 in particular, but we'll see. Also, I honestly have no idea where this story is going so forgive me for possibly ridiculous plot points. Thanks again! X**

* * *

The night was cold, and the tears fell fat and hot upon Sansa's cheeks. They had been riding for hours now. It seemed to Sansa that she had been on a horse for most of her life. But now, instead of the great black destrier, she was perched upon a skinny mare, with the big yellow-cloaked soldier behind her. She hated the stupid horse, and she didn't care much for the soldier. Up ahead, Beric Dondarrion led the group of outlaws, and to his right was Stranger, with Sandor slumped across him, swearing and spitting with every breath.

They'd wanted to take Stranger for themselves, but the Hound was too big for any of their bandit's horses to take his weight. That was something, at least, thought Sansa. In the dark, the brotherhood sang songs and called to one another jovially, making jokes and cursing the Hound. Sansa remained silent, and glared at Lord Beric's back.

If it hadn't been for the sigil of forked lightning which he wore upon his chest, she never would have believed it was him. Beric Dondarrion had been young, and comely - and this man was neither. He seemed to have aged decades in the time since Sansa had seen him last, and looked like as not to fall from his horse with sickness. He was scarred; everywhere he was scarred, and he wore an eye-patch now, half-hidden at times by his grizzled hair. _Would that Jeyne could see him now. _Jeyne had fancied herself in love with him, and would pinch Sansa's arm whenever he had passed, grinning. _Oh, Jeyne. _

A rough, guttural cry roused Sansa from her reverie. It was the Hound. His horse had made a small leap over a little stream, and landed hard. He had dropped in and out of consciousness throughout the ride, but woke screaming each time his horse mis-stepped. Still, Sansa said nothing.

Back at the mossy shelter, when they'd been taken, none of them would give her a chance to speak. Lord Beric kept telling her she needn't be afraid, and that the Hound would be brought to justice; and the one called Lem kept insulting him. There was another one, small and old with brown hair and a pointy nose like a rat, who plucked a harp and told her that a maid as beautiful as she would be perfect for a song. "And with a story like yours, oh!"

Sansa hadn't been able to tell him that songs weren't true stories, though, because the Hound had spoken first. He had said terrible things. He had called them all whoresons, called her a whore, told them he had taken her forcefully from King's Landing and that he'd do it again, told them that he'd wanted a reward and that he'd wanted her for himself, told them that he'd kill them all and kill her after he'd raped her bloody, and finally told them that Sansa was so stupid that she'd actually thought that he would keep her from harm and deliver her to her family with no trouble. And then he'd laughed, and it was nothing like he'd laughed before - it was sinister and wolfish and terrible.

Sansa hadn't stopped weeping in the hours that had passed. The brothers had told her she was safe now, that they would see she was well-rested and fed and then they would deliver her to her Aunt Lysa. When she'd only wept harder at that, they shook their heads and ignored her, preferring to call to one another from their horses. Sansa sat in silent shock, berating herself. _Stupid bird_, she thought. _Life is not a song, haven't you learned? _'Florian and Jonquil' flashed through her mind for an instant, and then - "_I'll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said." _That made Sansa weep harder. He'd been ready to kill her, he would've killed her, and even still Sansa had trusted him in her naivety. And yet. It did not feel right to Sansa. But she mistrusted her instincts now, for hadn't they betrayed her in the past? It was her instincts that had told her to run to Cersei and tell her what her father meant to do, and it was her instincts which had made her set fire to her bedding and make sure everyone in the capital knew of her flowering. So now she could not even trust herself. Sansa closed her eyes, and prayed to the old gods and the new for help.

Suddenly, there was a long, low whistle from up ahead, and all at once there were lights floating out from the ground towards them. It took Sansa a moment to realise they were men, and that they had reached the mouth of a cave. Lord Beric dismounted and spoke briefly to those who had come out to meet them, and then they made their way to the Hound, who was tied wrist and ankle and roaring at them all. _Roaring like a lion. _With a great effort, he was lifted by the men and disappeared into the cave. The big soldier riding with Sansa dismounted and lifted her down, and then led her to the cave. Nervously, she entered. _Where else have I to go?_

Lem took her arm as she fumbled at the walls of the cave. It was warmer than she'd been expecting, and far longer, though she couldn't see much in the dark. They walked for some time, Sansa's hand meeting mud and stones and tree roots, until finally they emerged into a cavernous hollow in the earth which could have easily sheltered thirty men. A fire burned in the centre of the makeshift hall, its flames dancing and stretching to touch the blackened roof. Seated around it were men who appeared to be of varying levels of birth and position: some appeared to be peasants, while others were clearly soldiers. There were a few whose previous life Sansa could not have guessed at. And there in the corner, bound and grimacing far from the flames, was the Hound. A grey-haired man in faded red robes bent over him, tending his shoulder. Sansa turned away.

"Lady Sansa," called Lord Beric. "Allow me to re-acquaint you with one of my brothers." A stocky, clean-shaven man stepped forward. "M'lady," he inclined his head.

Sansa smiled as realisation dawned. "Harwin!" she cried. A thousand years had passed since she'd seen him last, back when she was still a child. He had been her father's man.

"I was sorry to hear of Lord Eddard's fate, M'lady. And of your Lady mother and Lord Robb."

Sansa bowed her head. "Thank you, Harwin," she whispered.

She was promised something to eat, and a bed to rest in, and she leaned back against the wall with her eyes closed, her face turned away from the direction of the Hound. She might even have fallen asleep, if a voice hadn't roused her. "M'lady," said a handsome, black-haired youth of an age with herself, "Beg pardon, M'lady, but I'm Gendry."

Sansa smiled blankly, not feeling much inclined toward pleasant conversation.

"I knew...I was with your sister, for a time. With Arya."

Sansa sat up. "Arya's alive? You know _Arya? _She's alive?"

Gendry sat next to her, looking uncomfortable. "She...she was, m'lady, when last I saw her. That was some time ago now."

"But where was she? What-what do you know of her?"

He took a breath. "After your father was executed, she- Yoren, he was of the Night's Watch, he picked us up and took us away from King's Landing. She was pretending to be a boy then, and had all her hair cut off. But he was killed in an attack, and we escaped, Arya and me, and Hot Pie and - and Lommy…"

Sansa looked confused.

"...And then we were captured by Lannisters, by the Mountain and his men, and taken to Harrenhal, and served there for a time. But then...then we escaped and the brotherhood found us. And we stayed with them awhile until...until she ran away."

"She ran away?" What was this place, that Arya would escape from it and risk being captured by the Mountain and his men - or worse - rather than stay?

"Y-yes, M'lady. That was a while ago now. But… But I never met anyone like Arry for surviving. She'll be alright, Lady Sansa. Mayhaps she made it back to Acorn Hall, or to the Eyrie." His words came out with a strange sort of force, and his eyes were clouded with something that Sansa could not quite identify.

"Mother have mercy," she whispered. It was too much to be hoped that her sister was still alive. And yet.

They supped together, on a watery stew which had little subsistence, but at least it was warm. Sansa had lost her cloak back at the shelter, and was given a new one now, heavier and uglier than the last, but warm. The Brotherhood Without Banners were cheery men, and passed the evening in telling ribald tales and swapping jokes about one another. From time to time, Sansa looked over at the Hound. The arrow had been taken from his shoulder, and the red man, Thoros he was called, had covered his wounds in some sort of poultice. Each time he caught her eye, he would scowl at her, until Sansa was afraid to look at him once more. Once more before she slept, she tried to get his attention. This time, he _gnashed_ at her, causing her to drop her eyes hurriedly and blink back tears. Still, she could not understand it. She had been so _sure._

She was given a place to sleep, and bid goodnight by Lord Beric. "Fear not, my Lady," he said quietly. "The Hound will be tried for his crimes upon the morrow, and will die for them."


	14. Chapter 14

Sansa slept little. She was suspicious of the watchful eyes of the Brotherhood, and tossed and turned most of the night upon the mud floor next to Gendry. Upon the morrow, Lord Beric said, the Hound was to be killed in exchange for his crimes, and she was to be taken to her Aunt in the Eyrie in exchange for gold. Neither of these inevitabilities offered her any peace. Her Aunt did not know her, and it seemed now that Sansa did not know the Hound. She stared bleakly into the black of the cave, doing her best to defy the tears that pricked treacherously at the corner of her eyes. She was sick of crying, sick of herself, of the stupid little girl who believed anything she was told.

Her head span. The Brotherhood and those who had been her Father's men, Arya's whereabouts, the Hound, her own fate - all swirled tumultuously around her mind, fighting for precedence and churning up more and more fog in her head until it seemed she'd never have a clear thought again. Beside her, Gendry's chest rose and fell slowly. Sansa envied him, envied his peace and his freedom. Envied, for half a second, the fact that he was not worth a ransom to anyone. But that was cruel, and it wasn't _his _fault that she'd been tossed from captor to captor. At least in King's Landing her price had been equal to a Lannister. Now, she doubted she'd be worth more than a few Dragons to her Aunt Lysa, who'd never met her and would likely assume that she had been... _sullied_ by a man during her ordeal. _None of it is fair_, she thought, and it sounded petulant even inside her own head. _Of course it isn't fair, stupid. It's real life_. It wasn't fair that her family was dead, it wasn't fair that no-one wanted her but for a bag of coin, it wasn't fair that Winterfell was a ruin. It wasn't fair that her mother had neglected to warn her, before she was murdered, that everyone she put her trust in would betray her.

Her mind turned to the Hound. It should not have surprised her, she supposed, that his intentions had been sinister, though she was forced to admit to herself that it stung all the same. None of it made any sense. He had never harmed her, not really, even though he was cruel and a brute. And he'd relented when she refused to go to the Eyrie, though perhaps that had only been so that she would not attempt an escape. But he'd been kind, in his way, and he'd seemed so frenzied when he'd spat those things at the Brotherhood that maybe - _No. _It was no use. He was just like the rest - worse, probably - and it was foolish and naive, even for a silly bird, to attempt to make sense of it. He'd even told her himself, she thought, almost laughing at her idiocy. _If there are gods, they made sheep so wolves could eat mutton, and they made the weak for the strong to play with. _Fool, fool, _fool_.

The word was still going around in her head when sleep finally overtook her.

* * *

There was no dawn in the belly of the hill where the Brotherhood dwelt, and so it was late in the morning when Sansa rose, with Gendry's hand on her shoulder and a wooden bowl of porridge thrust under her nose. "M'lady," he whispered, nodding encouragingly at her to take the meagre bowl from his hands. Sansa refrained from wrinkling her nose. "My thanks." The porridge glistened in the yellow light of the torches. Gendry grinned and sat down heavily next to her, regarding her with piercing blue eyes. She had a faint sense that she might have met him before, somewhere.

They spoke amiably for a while. It was pleasant to speak to someone near her own age, even if it was a boy who did not appear to have washed this side of the war. Tentatively at first, and then more enthusiastically as Sansa encouraged him with smiles and questions, Gendry told her stories of Arya. Though she could not allow herself to believe that her sister may yet be alive, Sansa could not help but feel that, as long as they spoke of her, there might yet be hope. It was a sweet kind of pain.

They had been engrossed a long time before Sansa realised that Sandor was nowhere to be seen. Glancing shyly round the cave, she noticed that it was largely empty. "Most of the Brothers are out ranging, keeping an eye on the woods," offered Gendry. "And...Thoros is with the Hound," he gestured vaguely to a crude passageway hacked into the wall of the cave. "Seeing to his wounds."

"Why?" asked Sansa, remembering Lord Beric's words. "They're only going to kill him later."

"They'll let him fight for it," Gendry shrugged. "Trial by combat. That's the Lord of Light's way, Lord Beric says."

Sansa's eyes widened. "If he fights, he'll go free. I doubt Dondarrion and the red priest together could best him if he had his hands tied behind his back."

Gendry shook his head. "You haven't seen Lord Beric fight. Not recently, anyway."

Sansa wanted to tell him that _he _hadn't seen the Hound fight, hadn't watched the blood spatter as he snarled like a mad dog and hacked through men, hadn't stood beside him and sank a knife into a man's ribs. But there was no point. He would see it himself soon enough, and she'd no wish to think on those things again. She smoothed her skirts, and forced herself to smile.

* * *

It was evening when Lord Dondarrion and his men came back. He looked as haggard and sickly as he had the previous night, and Sansa almost felt pity for him for a moment. But he was a fool to fight Sandor, nobody had asked him to, and even if he prevailed he would only ransom her off like anyone else.

He talked to the men for a while, smiling wearily at their jokes and boasts, until Thoros of Myr emerged from the tunnel for the first time that day, and whispered to Dondarrion. Sansa remembered him from King's Landing. If it hadn't been for his flamboyant robes, torn as they were, she would never have recognised the altered face. _None of us are as we were_. Lord Beric nodded to him, and signalled two men to follow Thoros back down the tunnel. Minutes later, they returned, marching the Hound between him. His hands were bound together at the wrist, and his face bore a sheen of sweat. His wounded shoulder slumped. Sansa cast her eyes down as Sandor's roved angrily over the faces in the cavern. Her heart quickened. Gendry had told her that nearly every man, woman and child in the hall had a charge to lay at his door. Sansa realised that he must have committed whatever crimes they were on the way to Winterfell with King Robert, or on their return to King's Landing. He had killed Arya's little friend, just because Joffrey wanted him to.

"Sandor Clegane," Beric Dondarrion stepped forward, and a hush fell around the cave. Even the Hound stopped spitting and cursing. "You are here to answer for your crimes against the people of Sherrer, and of the Mummer's Ford, and all those whom you have slain in cold blood in the service of the boy you call King."

Sandor Clegane stood, huge in the firelight, eyeing Lord Beric as though he were mad. "Sherrer? The Ford? You've lost your senses along with that eye, Dondarrion. I wasn't there."

Harwin spoke up. "You murdered Lord Lothar Mallery and Ser Gladden Wylde. There were girls of six and seven years raped, and babes on the breast cut in two."

"Them septons at Sludgy Pond" An old woman, this time.

"Ser Andrey Charlton. His squire Lucas Roote. Every man, woman, and child in Fieldstone and Mousedown Mill." More people took up the accusations, levelling name upon name at him, dozens, more than was possible.

The Hound spat into the fire. "Enough. I do not know these people. They never met my bloody sword."

"You serve the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, whose house was built on the corpses of innocents."

"Aye. Me and thousands of others. Is each of us guilty of the crimes of the others?"

The shouts continued round the hall, "Murderer" and "raper" and "dog" and plenty worse.

Lord Beric held up a hand for silence. "You took the Lady Sansa Stark against her will and announced your intention to harm her in front of us. You cannot deny this charge, at least."

The Hound laughed a snarl. "No, I don't deny it. I said it, and meant it. But there's a difference between meaning harm and doing it." He never looked at her.

Sansa felt the eyes of the hall upon her. She felt hot. Her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth. Part of her felt she should speak up, admit that she'd gone with him willingly enough, that she hadn't known what he meant to do to her. Part of her felt she should send him to whichever hell was the most fiery. Part of her felt like crying.

Before she had a chance to speak, Thoros moved forward. "You stand accused of murder, but no one here knows the truth or falsehood of the charge, so it is not for us to judge you. Only the Lord of Light may do that now. You will undergo trial by battle."

The firelight gleamed off his teeth as he bared them in a sneer. "Set me free now, priest, and spare yourself the bother of burying one of these swineherds."

Dondarrion spoke. "You will fight me, Clegane."

The sneer became a howl of derision. "_You? _You're mostly dead already."

"The Lord of Light will determine the outcome, not I. Bring him his sword and shield."

Neither man wore armour. "I hope your God's a sweet one, Dondarrion. You're going to meet him shortly."

Lord Beric ignored him. He bowed his head and lowered his sword to his palm, staining it with blood. A moment later, the sword caught fire. The Hound's eyes widened, and his lips drew back from his teeth. He charged.

Lord Beric moved as fast as Sandor did. Sansa's heart flung itself against her ribs. Blade met fiery blade in a screech of steel. Beric moved forward, quick agile steps, darting the flaming sword into the Hound's face. Sandor moved back and back again, eyes wild, then jerked his sword under Dondarrion's toward his scrawny belly, blocking a fiery blow with his shield at the same time. His thrust missed, and he was driven back further. There was flame on both sides of him now as he was forced backward towards the fire pit which warmed the cave. Sweating and quick with the strength of desperation, the Hound took back ground and aimed two more savage blows at Beric's chest and neck. A thin gash formed there, not enough to slow him, and still he was besting the Hound. Cries went up around the cave: Kill Him, Finish Him, Guilty Guilty Guilty. The Hound was dripping with sweat, dodging flames and cuts, barely able to reach Dondarrion through his fiery defence. With brute strength he managed to move Beric back once more, and levelled several more wild thrusts at him, badly aimed. Lord Beric retaliated by slashing his chest. The Hound fell to one knee, blood blooming on his jerkin. "No," whispered Sansa, as she felt Gendry tense beside her.

Still Lord Beric came forward, and still the Hound slashed desperately, barely catching the other blade. A two-handed blow nearly took Sandor in the head, before he jerked his shield to his defense. Within seconds it was aflame. Unable to shake it off, the Hound screamed, thrusting forward madly. Lord Beric met him well, and now the Hound's arm was in flame and his blows fell uselessly. Another kiss from the sword fell on his face, too quick to burn but more than enough to blind him in one eye with the blood that poured out. He was going to die. The others in the cave was shouting, and Sansa couldn't make sense of any of it. The flaming sword came down again. Sansa moved forward, without knowing what she was doing, and was held back by Gendry and Lem. It wasn't until a salty hand came down over her mouth that it occurred to her that she had been shouting. She bit the hand and screamed again. "He's on fire, someone help him-" the hand did not move the second time. "HE'S ON FIRE" she tried to shriek, but it was muffled and barely made any noise. The hand was wet with tears and blood. Was it Gendry's?

Sandor had rid himself of his shield, and moved to block a last blow. _What's the point, _Sansa thought, but now he stood and, with an incoherent roar, sliced at the lightning lord. It connected, and kept going. Lord Beric's neck was cleaved, nearly detached from his chest. Paying him no heed, Sandor dropped frantically and rolled in the dirt to rid himself of the residual flame. He did not rise. There was silence in the hall, and then a clamouring and crying. Bodies shoved past Sansa, but she was on her knees and she couldn't see for the tears and she did not notice them.


	15. Chapter 15

There was an eerie silence in the cave as four soldiers lifted the man that had been Beric Dondarrion's flopping body away. Vomit boiled up in Sansa's throat as she stared, transfixed, at his hideous wounds as he disappeared into the gloom. After a moment Lem and Gendry released their grip upon her, but she remained on her knees in the dirt for a long time - until the rest of the cavern had been deserted, watching the fire dance tauntingly through glazed eyes.

Thoros had removed the Hound from the main hall and dragged his body back down the same passageway they had emerged from before, trailing blood in his wake. Sansa knew Sandor was dead. Everyone that mattered was dead. Wincing, she stood, and dusted off her muddied skirts. She gazed uncertainly around the cave. _What do I do?_

It occurred to her that, in all the commotion, it might be possible for her to sneak away from the Brotherhood and escape the Hollow Hill. But she knew she would not. She was afraid, and alone, and she would allow Lord Beric to ransom her to her Aunt because she was too weak to survive by herself. Sansa wished she was in the wood, or Winterfell, or even back on Stranger with her thighs burning and the cold rattle of steel at her back. Sansa lay down slowly, wrapping her tattered cloak about her as best she could. A little whimper pushed past her lips. She thought of the big villain who had taken her away from King's Landing. He was a killer, and she hated him. But he had not committed the murders that he had been accused of in the cave. It wasn't possible. But then, she thought, neither the Old Gods nor the New had ever cared what was right and what was wrong, so why should this Lord of Light?

Sansa felt the familiar, hungry ache of dull emptiness settle in her chest, and closed her eyes. _He was no true knight, but he saved me all the same_.

* * *

She must have slept, because it felt like half a second later that the cave was suddenly filled with bodies and the hum of hushed voices. And then she realised she was dreaming, because there Lord Beric stood, in the light of the great fire, pale and thin but certainly alive. She could not hear what he said from the distance she lay at, but his face was serious. Beside her, Gendry sat, polishing the blade of a little dagger he carried. The solid presence of his body surprised Sansa; she could not have dreamt that. Reaching her pale hand out slowly, she touched Gendry's knee. It was real enough.

"M'lady?" Surprise and concern crossed Gendry's face.

Sansa sat up, wide eyed. "I'm sorry. I thought - thought I was dreaming. I imagined I saw...Lord Beric. It's just that I'm so tired and...in the firelight…"

Gendry smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Lady Sansa, you _did _see him. He's alive! The Lord of Light brought him back, they say."

Sansa frowned. "That cannot be. It must be some trick, or -"

"_Look._" And there he was, naked from the waist up and looking like a dead man, but moving through the small crush of bodies surrounding him like one very much alive. He seemed to feel Sansa's eyes upon him from across the cavern, and turned to give her a nod and a tired smile. Sansa was too surprised to return it.

"But he was _dead_."

"I couldn't say how it happens, M'lady. Some of the men have seen it before; or so they say. Though they thought that this time it might not work, seen as how…" He tailed off.

Sansa, surprised as she was, could not summon much interest in exactly how Lord Beric had cheated the Stranger. But her manners forced her to ask: "Why might it not have worked?"

Gendry swallowed, and failed to meet her gaze. "Well, since… I don't want to upset you, M'lady, but the big man, this Hound…"

Sansa dropped her eyes and fidgeted with a stray thread on her cloak.

"They thought it might not work, since he survived."

A cold knife twisted in her belly. "What did you say?"

"I'm sorry. I know you must be shocked. No one knows why the Lord of Light let him live."

Her thudding heart seemed to be in danger of flying out of her open mouth. "Where is he?"

Gendry frowned. "In the chambers down there-" he nodded towards the makeshift corridor - "Where Thoros tends to the injured. He is weak, he cannot harm you."

Sansa paused. "I would go to him. I wish to speak with him."

Gendry seemed taken aback by this. "Forgive me, M'lady, but I don't -"

"Will you take me to him?" Sansa was already on her feet, looking down at the boy. His bright eyes were clouded with worry. She saw him look uncertainly in the direction of Lord Beric, and decided. "I would speak with the man who cheated the death he deserved for the murder of innocents and for taking me captive by means of falsehood."  
"I...Yes, M'lady." Gendry stood, and motioned for her to follow him to the passageway. The corridor did not benefit from the light of torches as the cave did, and Sansa narrowly avoided stumbling several times as they edged further down it. After a short time, Gendry gestured towards an opening. "Would you like to me to stay, Lady Sansa?"

"I'm grateful for your concern, but no. My thanks."

As Gendry disappeared into the black of the passage, Sansa held her breath. _Why did I come here? _Long moments passed as she stood motionless at the entrance to a low chamber from which soft yellow light emanated. She could detect no movement from inside. Sansa chewed her lip. Anger and worry fought inside her chest, tripping over one another. She wanted to storm into the room and demand answers from him. She wanted to kneel by his side and tend his wounds. She wanted him to beg for her forgiveness, she wanted him to growl angrily at her again, she wanted him to take her home. _You cannot have what you want. Steel yourself and face him._ Shaking, she walked into the little firelit chamber, forcing herself to hold her head high.

The low bed which stood at the far end of the room was too small for him, and sagged under his weight. A stool sat next to it. In an alcove, shelves stocked with vials were built into the natural wall. The fire was the only other feature in the otherwise empty cave, its light throwing shadows up to the wall and over Sandor's ruined face, exaggerating the damage. Sansa's lips parted. His chest was bare and rising and falling in quick, shallow motions. The skin was torn by a huge purple gash trailing from the base of his throat on the left side to just under his right nipple, in a gruesome diagonal slash. His left arm and hand were entirely bound in tight fabric. A stinking poultice was just visible under the white material. The wound on his shoulder had been re-opened during the fight. Above his eye, a deep cut which mimicked the one he had bore the night of the Blackwater stretched across part of his forehead. A hundred other bruises and marks peppered his skin. His right leg, uncovered by the sheet which had been pulled up to his waist on his other side, had been mangled by Lord Beric's sword. The knee was bound and swollen, the bandage rusted all over with blood. His thigh had also been opened, though not so deeply. Sansa let out a long, shaky breath. His face was grey, glistening with sweat. His eyes did not open as she moved to sit down.

Sansa stared at him a long time. Somehow, huge as he was and covered in the fiercest of wounds, he looked like a child, lying motionless in the little low bed. His black hair was plastered to his face, and she felt an inexplicable desire to move it, but retracted her hand timidly almost as soon as she had reached it out, the thought of the Hound's reaction if he woke preventing her. Instead, she lightly touched the back of his massive hand with a single finger, as much to make sure it was not cold as anything else. With a breath of relief, she found the hand warm, and her finger remained there.

She was gazing around the chamber, at a pile of discarded, bloody clothes and armour and a basin of pink water which lay on the floor when she felt his hand twitch, and turned in surprise to find the Hound's eyes open and raking her face. Sansa quickly folded her hands in her lap. Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

"Disappointed, girl?" Sandor Clegane's voice was a deathly rasp. "Can't say I blame you. Though you shouldn't have put your hopes in Dondarrion's bloody fire God. Buggering fool to fight when he was half dead."

"He's alive." Sansa's voice sounded reedy and weak. "Thoros brought him back, I've seen him."

The Hound regarded her, then coughed. "The Gods don't bring men back to life, and if they do then it's as punishment."

"Did he bring you back?"

A rough chuckle rattled out from his chest. "Kill a dog when it goes bad, Little Bird. Don't resurrect it."

Sansa did not smile. "Why did you take me? If you meant harm, why not do it before we were captured? There was no one to stop you."

The Hound winced in pain and made a feeble attempt to sit up, to no avail. "I didn't trust them. He was your father's man, Dondarrion, and he fought my brother. They hate Lannisters, and Cleganes more, and they wouldn't have looked too kindly on his bloody Stark Lord's get travelling willingly with a Clegane. Had to say something." His breath was coming quickly now, and he struggled to speak. "They would have thought you a traitor to your family, and to them, if they knew the truth. People aren't quick to believe it when they're told a dog has turned on his master. Thought it'd be easiest to make them believe you'd tried to escape the Lannisters, and that I meant harm and saw an opportunity." He sneered. "Wouldn't surprise any bloody honourable Stark bannerman to think the Hound was a kidnapper and raper."

Sansa stared at him. "But they aren't Stark men any more. They fight for themselves, Gendry says, and for dead King Robert. They wouldn't have cared who I was with, they'd have ransomed me off either way."

"Seven Hells." Sandor looked irritated.

"Did you kill those people?" Sansa couldn't make herself look up as she asked the question.

The Hound paused before he answered. "No, girl, I didn't bloody kill them. I'll wager it was my brother." He stopped. "I am no liar."

"I'm sorry." It was the faintest whisper.

If he heard, the Hound did not show it. He turned his gaze to the ceiling.

"How is your arm?"

"Bloody sore. That Thoros is better than any maester I've ever seen, though. Says I'll be able to use it again."

The fire popped and crackled in the silence.

"I thought you were dead."

For a long time, the Hound stared at her, and it occurred to Sansa that his scars no longer frightened her. She wondered when she had learned to look.

"I heard you shouting."

Sansa's face burned. "I thought the fire was cruel." She bowed her head and twisted her hands in her lap.

The statement stretched into the quiet. Neither moved or spoke. And then, softly, the Hound reached with his good hand to touch a lock of the hair spilling into Sansa's lap. Gently, he twisted it round his index finger, watching it catch the light of the fire. After holding it for a moment, he tugged it until it hurt a little. When Sansa looked up in surprise, he dropped it.

"You're bleeding," she whispered, pointing to the wound on his head. She stood and moved to fetch the bowl of water and cloth which she presumed had been used to clean his wounds by Thoros. Carrying it back, she perched on the edge of the bed rather than the stool, to reach him more easily. She laid the bowl down and brought the cloth up to his face, touching it gently. Sandor jerked his arm back in a minute gesture as she leant over him, but otherwise remained motionless.

His hair was in the way. Tentatively, Sansa reached to move it back. The Hound did not stop her. as she dabbed at the cut, she felt his eyes moving over her face. When she had cleaned it as well as she could, she met them. She had seen the expression that they held once before; the night of the Blackwater when he had come to take a song. Now, his eyes held the same lost, desperate look that they had when she had moved his knife away from her throat. Without knowing why, Sansa was filled with a sadness as deep as that she had felt when she thought him dead. For a moment, the grey eyes swam before her as her own filled with tears. When they fell, they landed softly on the skin of Sandor's chest. Still, he did not move, or sneer as she expected. His eyes were wide.

Sansa's hand moved almost independently up to the burnt side of Sandor's face. He flinched, but to her surprise did not shove her off or snap at her. Her fingers moved, slightly, just enough for Sandor to feel them brush gently over his scars. And then she bowed her head and brought her lips to his, unsure and chaste. her heart slammed. Under her mouth, his felt rough and hard. His face was as unmoving as stone. Her lips remained upon his for several painful seconds, in which she felt her cheeks catch fire. Still, the Hound lay motionless. Sansa lifted her head.

Without looking at him, she stood up clumsily. _Oh Gods, what have I done? _She turned away, desperate to leave the room. "Well...G-goodnight, Ser. I mean -" But she was already at the door, and did not pause as she fled.


	16. Chapter 16

It was grey in the half-light of the morning, and cold. Though the snows hadn't yet crept this far south, Sansa knew it wouldn't be long now. She could smell it on the air. _Winter is coming. _

The mist rolled back to reveal sparse trees as they rode. Many were bare. Some were scorched. One had a dead man propped against it, too cold to stink. Sansa stared straight ahead, drawing the scratchy cloak tighter about her shoulders. Behind her, Lem picked his teeth, and Sansa shuffled forward in the saddle, disgusted.

They had only sent three to escort her. Only three. Lem, Gendry, and Tom O'Sevens. It was worrying and comforting at once. Nobody really cared what happened to her, not any more. _I don't, either. _They had set off as soon as the heavy blackness of night had begun to lift, with the horses walking. Lem had swung her up into the saddle in front of him, and whispered: "Do I need to tie you, now, or will you be good?"

Sansa refused to turn round, but she could hear the grin in his voice. She longed to wipe the smile from his face, longed to look him in the eye and tell him that she'd killed one of the Mountain's men and so he would tie her if he was clever. But she didn't. _That wasn't the same thing. _So they rode, and said nothing, and Sansa wondered what the Aunt in the Eyrie would say when she saw the dirty, tangled mess who had been a Princess, and a King's betrothed, and was nothing now.

Somehow, after Lord Beric had died and been brought back, Sansa had expected to be forgotten. She had imagined living with the brotherhood: working, going unnoticed. But Gendry had shaken her awake minutes after she had finally dropped to sleep, and she'd been mounted again almost before she knew what was happening. Not for the first time, Sansa swore to the Old Gods and the New that, if she survived the winter, she would never sit a horse as long as she lived. At least the Hound had ridden such a huge horse that there was room for them both. But _oh, Gods, don't think of him. _

It had taken her by surprise. She hadn't meant to do it. But she had been shocked, and scared, and alone, and so, so tired of all of it. She had wanted desperately to escape her cage, and to break his. She didn't know what she had wanted. To comfort, or to be comforted; to wrest control - just for a moment - from the hands of those who would do her harm and to take it for herself. It was something soft and pure in the midst of the terror. But it had been a madness, quickly recovered from. A Little bird, fluttering back to the rafters. It was best left alone.

The silence yawned out into the wood before them, broken occasionally by a screaming crow or Tom's voice, making some joke or other. Sansa ignored him each time. It was long hours before they met them, as they followed a muddy track skirting the trees. Only two, and travel-weary; Tom and Lem did not seem concerned. Sansa stiffened a little, but merely sat up straighter. The two men were not moving. Sansa thought they might have allowed the brothers to pass on without a word, but Lem seemed to catch something in the intensity of their gaze, and pulled the skinny mare to a halt, confident.

"Like what you see, sweetheart?" he called.

Sansa blinked: She'd been wrong, it was a woman. She stood taller than Tom and probably even Gendry, with battered armour and a crop of straw-blonde hair. At close quarters she could see that in fact neither of them were men - the second was a boy. She pushed forward a little. Was his face familiar?

Her musings were stopped in their tracks by the big woman's speech. "No, Ser, I do not." Her sword was drawn. "I must ask you to relinquish that maiden to my care."

There was a silence. The mare snorted. And Tom and Lem exploded into laughter.

"Take yourself off, woman. This one's ours. Does your husband know you're playing at knights?" Lem laughed, wiping an eye.

The two travellers exchanged glances. Even to Sansa, their case seemed hopeless. The boy wasn't even armed.

"I am under oath to protect that lady."

Sansa turned sharply, surprised. "I've never seen you before, you swore no oath."

The woman bowed. "No, my Lady. I swore the oath to your mother, Lady Catelyn."

She felt sick. "You lie. My mother is dead." Her eyes flicked towards Gendry, who looked bemused.

The woman bowed again. "Yes, my Lady. I do not consider myself free from the oath I swore to her, however. She asked me to find you and your sister, and to protect you. I am Brienne of Tarth, and this -"

Sansa and Tom spoke at the same instant.

"My sister's dead."  
"Seven Hells, woman, we ain't giving her up, even if she _would _go with you! A pretty ransom she's to fetch, and -"

"Shut your fool fucking mouth, Tom." Lem's eyes were narrowed.

Brienne was quiet, her fingers reaching for something at her side. She produced a fat purse, and held it aloft. Her hand did not shake.

"Take it. It's more than you'll get for her at the Eyrie."

Tom and Lem exchanged glances. Sansa's head whirled.

"What's to stop us taking your purse and keeping the girl, eh?" Lem did not seem concerned by the gold, but he had shifted behind her.

Brienne closed her eyes for a moment. "You may try, if you like."

Tom had steered his horse so it stood close to Lem's. "It _is_ more than we'll get for her at the Eyrie. Take it and let her go. The Gods know I don't bloody care what happens to her."

Gendry moved as though to speak up, but Lem silenced him by speaking to the woman.

"Hand it over, then."

Sansa met Brienne's eyes for the first time, making no effort to conceal the panic.

"Let her down from the horse."

Lem did so, leaping from the mare himself and lifting Sansa down after him. Brienne bowed to her once more, and tossed the purse to the big soldier, who was already back in the saddle.

"We've robbed you," he chuckled, and motioned to Gendry and Tom. "I mean to try to drink some of this gold before Beric gets hold of it. Hurry up, will you?"

Tom gave another crack of laughter, and dug his heels into his horse. Gendry turned to Sansa. She nodded gravely at him. "Luck."

"And you, Lady Sansa."

The jingle of his horse died away quick as he moved through the thick trees.


	17. Chapter 17

Sansa watched the fire dance through half-lidded eyes as she lay curled in her bedroll. She was warm. Brienne had insisted upon giving up her sleeping mat to Sansa, and had provided her with a fur-lined cloak. The flames were built higher than the Hound had ever allowed them to be, and despite the smell of frost in the air she was protected from the chill of the night.

And yet she could not sleep. She did not trust the big woman. Why had she paid Lem and Tom so highly for Sansa, only to take her to the Eyrie herself? Why did she claim to be acting upon the orders of her dead mother? And why did the Lannister squire accompany her, if she had sworn fealty to a Stark?

Sansa rubbed her tired eyes. She couldn't be sure where they were, but Brienne had claimed that the great fork of the Trident lay a day and a half's ride away, flooded on all sides by the constant, driving rains and too swampish to cross. They would have to bear west to the thinner, calmer waters tailing off from the Red Fork, and from there cross and loop round to the mountainous North side of the Vale of Arryn. That would take weeks, Sansa knew, and they would be riding into the snow. Not for the first time, she wondered if she would ever reach the Eyrie.

In the cool of the night, the great trees creaked. Pod snuffled in his sleep behind her. Suddenly agitated by restlessness, Sansa threw off her covers and, huddling her cloak around her, crouched at the fire, thoughtfully picking up twigs to burn in its blaze as her eyes glazed over in deep thought.

It was not fear, or even the overwhelming, empty grief that lived in the pit of her stomach that overcame her now. It was pure frustration. She had been passed like a pet from owner to owner, never controlling her own fate, denied the smallest level of independence. She should have been in Winterfell, the ruler of the North, with armies of men loyal to her. Instead, she was not allowed to make water without being watched. She had not even been able to bury her family, let alone avenge them. And now she was to go back to a castle which was not her own and live at the convenience of a stranger whose position was inferior to her's, and soon enough she would be married off and bred for lordlings. Sansa drove a blackened stick angrily into the mud.

"Seven hells," she whispered experimentally into the darkness. The sound of it gave her a tiny sense of satisfaction.

The next morning Brienne awoke to find that Sansa had covered the remains of the fire as best she could, watered the horses and packed her bedroll away. She raised an eyebrow without making comment, and turned away to rouse Podrick.

* * *

The days passed in uneasy quiet. Sansa and Brienne were both sharply aware that as they passed the Inn of the Kneeling Man and later Fairmarket, the danger was close and keen and snapping at their heels. When food was scarce Brienne would dart in and out of sparsely populated villages stinking of desperation, and pay well over the odds for hard bread and half-rotten fruit. Sansa fought the urge to dig her knees into her mare whenever she sensed men nearby, and would exchange concerned glances with Brienne. In the evenings, she would gather firewood and point out birds' nests to Podrick. Brienne would turn their food on a spit or sharpen her sword gravely. Slowly, the three fell into a comfortable silence. Podrick seemed too frightened to speak. Brienne seemed too preoccupied. And Sansa was simply grateful for the opportunity to grieve in the quiet. If Brienne had news of King's Landing, or the War, or the North, she kept it to herself, and for that too Sansa was grateful. As long as they remained under the shelter of the wood, silent and neutral and comforting, Sansa could pretend that she would never have to return to her real life, with its betrayals and hurts. Her days were simple and empty, and the three spent their hours existing alongside one another without ever really sharing them.

Sansa had grown so used to the mundanity of their routine that she was taken aback when Brienne sat close by her one evening and spoke in a tense, hushed tone, bowing her straw-coloured head to Sansa's red one.

"My Lady, you may have noticed that our course has altered. I think we're being tracked. I- I should have noticed earlier, but we had been alone for so long - and the worst of the danger was behind us - the fault is mine."

Sansa chewed her lip. "The Mountain?"

"No, My Lady. I believe he has been recalled to King's Landing. Likely it is outlaws, or some scout who does not know who he is following."  
"Not Freys?"

"Not in this land, no. But I do not want to lead them to suspect their prey is worth their trouble by continuing towards the Eyrie. I think it's best to make instead for Oldstones."

The familiar feeling of helplessness rose up in Sansa's chest. She was tired of running away, fluttering like a little bird from branch to branch. With a sick sensation in her throat she wished she was with the Hound. He was not afraid, he would kill anyone who tried to hurt her. He did not let frightened little boys accompany him. The ache in her belly twisted.

Sansa simply nodded, and turned back to the fire. Brienne said quietly to Podrick that she would take the first watch, and moved further into the clearing, placing her sword across her knees as she sat stoically in the dark.

That night, when the soft snapping noises of nature woke her suddenly, Sansa clenched her cold fist under her cloak and wished there was a dagger inside it.


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: Apologies for updates having been so sporadic recently. The good bit is coming up, I promise. A note on accuracy/suspension of disbelief: I'm assuming/imagining/deciding that since Thoros can bring dead guys back to life he has extra super magic healing powers, so maybe someone is doing a lot better than would naturally be expected? **

**Thank you for bearing with me.**

**PS I'm writing the next chapter whilst listening to Daughter - Run; it fits these two so well.**

* * *

Later, Sansa supposed she should have known sooner. But their days were smothered panic and lean, cold, fear, and reason had escaped her.

As their journey continued and the trees thinned so too did their tempers. Brienne would twitch in the saddle all day whilst Pod snivelled. Sansa resisted the urge to dig her heels into her pony whenever she sensed men nearby. The way became hilly and difficult; the two horses were exhausted peasants' nags and Sansa knew the animals were unlikely to make it to the Eyrie. Brienne never discussed her concerns with Sansa when they made camp at night, but her thoughts lay frank in her eyes when they met the younger girl's.

A day's ride from Oldstones, the facade cracked. As the evening fell, clear and red, a small valley protected on three sides by a cluster of high hills and sheltered by a thicket of trees came into sight. Sansa could have laughed with relief at the sight: the Gods might have made it for them to camp in. There was water, there would be rabbits or wood pigeons or ducks, even, it would be _dry. _Even Brienne, in her gruff, tired way, gave a huff of satisfaction.

"I only hope no others have reached it before us," she said, leading her horse on foot down the rocky path. "But it's well secluded. Gods willing, the rain will hold off, and we may rest here two nights."

Sansa smiled broadly, and turned her face to the open sky. And then, in the saddle behind her, there was a shift and a slump, and suddenly Podrick was on the ground, eyes closed and face grey.

Reaching him first, Sansa closed her hand around his wrist. It was clammy and fiery at once. Running back up the path, sword jangling against her armour, Brienne stooped to her squire. After several moments' examination, she raised her head.

"He's fevered. Exhausted, and half-starved, most like, poor lad. He'll need a maester." Her teeth were gritted.

"But we'll never reach Oldstones tonight, and…" Sansa tailed off, glancing uncertainly towards their mounts.

"We'll build the fire high tonight, try to feed him, keep him warm - I've seen men worse off keep riding, when things were desperate. But he's green. Tomorrow we'll ride as hard as we can. Seven _hells_," she hissed.

* * *

They reached the little woodland on foot, Brienne carrying her squire like an infant. Sansa led her pony tentatively by its reins, watching stones slip from under its feet. Brienne's horse seemed to know instinctively what to do. By the time Brienne stopped, the shelter of the trees was comforting and the ground was thick with pinecones. Wordlessly, Sansa unpacked the empty skins from the saddlebags of Brienne's horse to fill at the stream, and gathered her skirts to collect as much wood as she could carry. As she walked, she prayed silently; first to the Mother, and then to the Old Gods. Finally, she prayed to the Stranger. _Have you not taken enough? _

When she returned, Podrick was wrapped in his own cloak, Brienne's, and her horse's blanket. Brienne had built a makeshift firepit from some of the rocks which had hindered their path downwards, and now sat cross-legged, whetstone in hand. Pulling off her own cloak to spread over the squire, Sansa nodded to Brienne.

"How does he?"

"His shivering has slowed. I was loth to leave him alone. If he can eat, a meal might help him."

Sansa nodded again. "I will watch him. I have - I had two younger brothers."

A grim smile crossed the tall woman's face. "I will return before dark falls, my Lady."

* * *

She had been away too long. Build the fire tall, she had said, and Sansa had barely been able to create a flame. The Hound had taught her how, but without his impatient scrutiny the flames were slow to obey. Shivering, Sansa sighed. The wood was poor, thick evergreen twigs too green to do much more than smoke at her. Her dress felt thin and ragged. Absent-mindedly, she turned to Pod. He reminded her a little of Bran. The boy was terrified of her, it seemed, and generally only spluttered in response on the few occasions where she had addressed him directly, but the same odd sort of gentle bravery shone through. His loyalty to Brienne was unquestionable. Softly, Sansa stretched out a hand to stroke his hair, seeing his eyes flutter rapidly under their lids. It was silly to sing, she thought, but in the wood there was no one to hear but the birds. High and thin, her voice strained out:

"_Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_

_Save our sons from war we pray._

_Stay the swords and stay the arrows,_

_Let them know a better day."_

She might have carried on, but a sharp crack and a choked grunt from the trees at her back took her voice from her.

"So The Little Bird keeps on singing. Seven hells, girl, not the _Mother_, still?"


	19. Chapter 19

In the half second before she whirled around, Sansa convinced herself that she was mistaken. Smothering the jolt of lightning in her belly and squaring herself instead for danger, she turned.

But she knew his voice, knew his horse, knew his height, knew his scars.

Ten feet away from her he stood, nonchalant, the suggestion of a smirk twitching on his lips. He had lost his armour, and leaned lightly on the hilt of his longsword, the red evening light filtering through the pines to illuminate the fresh scarring over his burnt arm. The studded leather jerkin stretched over his chest emphasised his massive size, and his black hair hung over the scars of his face, half obscuring one of the eyes boring in to Sansa.

She was dimly aware that her mouth was open. Flushed pink and bright eyed, Sansa's gaze flashed from the Hound's arm to his eyes and down to fix on the safer area of his torso. In the pre-dusk her hair glinted copper fire, pale skin dead white against the anxious red of her cheeks.

"My Lord."

Smirk widening almost imperceptibly, Sandor moved forward.

"Boy looks fevered. Bloody hells, can't you light a fire properly yet?"

Forgetting her surprise, Sansa retorted.

"You wouldn't teach me properly, you would always push me away-"

The sharp, rasping guffaw came back like the crack of a whip.

"Watch," he growled, crouching over the feeble flames and discarding the poorest wood. With his knife, he stripped the bark from the pine twigs and used the softer innards, peeled off with the blade, as kindling. Within minutes, the fire leapt. Sansa smiled shyly, and gratefully warmed her hands by the blaze.

Rocking back on his haunches, the Hound wiped the back of one massive hand across his brow. "Where's your pretty knight? She can't be as bad a hunter as she is a navigator."

_So it was him, of course it was him. How long has he been watching us?_

"She isn't a knight. She should have returned by now."

"First me, and then dead Dondarrion, now her. Will you ever have your true knight?" The Hound's tone was sharply sarcastic, but not without humour. He stood suddenly, leaving the girl no time to respond, and went to Stranger who had been left grazing by a thicket of bushes. Sansa was glad to see the horse. Bad tempered and mean as he was, he was strong and swift, and she had missed him when being bumped around on Lem's skinny mare or Brienne's little pony.

The Hound fumbled in his saddlebags and eventually produced a wineskin, a hard yellow wedge of cheese and a generous lump of dark crusted bread. Nodding towards Podrick's sleeping form, he rasped:

"That one needs to eat. He looks to be half starved."

"We haven't had much...in the villages, it's so difficult...Winter is coming."

With another sharp scratch of laughter, Sandor tore half of the bread off in an easy movement and tossed it at Sansa. "Little wolf bitch."

Sitting as demurely as possible by the flames, she caught the bread. He walked to the fire, and Sansa noticed for the first time that he limped badly. She wondered if that would be forever. Hungry as she was, the thoughts flitting through her mind prevented her from filling her mouth. _How does he come to be here? And why? What does he mean to do? _

Before she could ask anything of him, the Hound motioned for her to pass him the skin she had filled with water. Taking it from her, he knelt beside Pod, shaking him oddly gently.

The boy was half-dreaming and confused when he opened his eyes, and at the sight of the Hound's face so close to his gave a soft, strangled cry of fright.

Before she could stop it, a little gurgle of laughter had bubbled up in Sansa's throat and escaped into the cool evening. When the Hound turned to look at her, she burned red again, thinking of that first time when she had washed his wounds and looked at him too long, and how angry he had been. But now Sandor Clegane only raised a sardonic eyebrow, seeming to assess her, and then turned back to Podrick.

"Sit up, boy. Drink this. You're not dying." With one huge arm, he supported the squire's back as he obediently drank from the skin, fearful eyes watching the newcomer.

"Y-Yes, Ser."

"Bugger you, gnat." Podrick seemed to be used to this kind of address from men such as the Hound, and accepted it without response. Quietly, Sandor called: "Sansa. Get that helm from Stranger."

Startled still by the use of her name, Sansa paused a moment before clumsily standing and brushing off her skirts. She approached Stranger warily, looking for the familiar dog's head helm. It was not there, but a battered greathelm of poor workmanship was tied to one saddlebag. Sansa retrieved it and, realising what was required of her, poured wine into it and set it upon the fire. The Hound nodded, and pulled Podrick into a full sitting position closer to the fire.

* * *

It was mere moments later that they heard a rustle ahead as Brienne shambled through the trees, swinging two rabbits.

"Forgive me, Lady Sansa. I had some -" She stopped short as she entered their little clearing, swollen lips parting as her wide gaze took in the form of the Hound. Dropping the rabbits, her hand went to her swordbelt.

"Don't do that," said Sandor casually, picking his teeth and remaining seated. Brienne looked very much inclined to ignore this advice, until Sansa broke in.

"He won't hurt you." At this, the Hound snorted, but Sansa continued. "He has food and wine, he's helping Pod, he might have frozen without him."

Brienne was very still. Overhead, a blackbird sang. Her hand had not moved.

"The way I see it," rasped Sandor in a bored tone, "You can take out that sword and make me kill you, or you can skin those rabbits and we can eat." Without turning his gaze, he addressed Sansa. "Don't let that wine boil away, girl. Give it to the boy."

Hurriedly, Sansa gathered her skirts and used them to remove the helm from the fire, slopping it a little as she avidly watched the two warriors. _Say something useful_, she urged herself.

"He took me away from the Red Keep."

"_You _took her?" From her tone, it was clear Brienne knew Sandor Clegane by reputation at least, if not in person.

"Yes and if he hadn't I would still be in King's Landing and you wouldn't be able to keep your Oath and I might be dead by now." The words tumbled out of Sansa's mouth hurriedly. Brienne's hand finally moved, to pass in a tired motion across her face.

"Why? You were Joffrey's dog."

"The ransom, for a ransom," said Sansa, keen to smooth things over.

Brienne did not look convinced, but a weak cough from Podrick gained her attention, and finally seemed to persuade her.

"Very well. You may eat with us before you move on."

The Hound seemed ready to retort to this, but Sansa intervened by praising Brienne's catch and fixing him with a shy stare. After that, he was silent, and they ate their meal in relative peace.

* * *

As the two soldiers licked the grease from their fingers, Sansa's thoughts continued to swim. Without being quite sure what was happening, she sensed a thick atmosphere around the camp. Brienne and the Hound seemed to be sizing one another up, each assessing the other's character and physical prowess. But if there was to be fight, it would not be in her name, not for ownership of her. Sansa would not allow it.

Brienne had been kind to her, in her gruff, bare way, and had no motive for being her escort other than the oath she said she had sworn her mother. They had not spoken about it in depth; Sansa could not bear to hear any more tales of her family. Nevertheless, it was clear that the woman was honour-bound to the point of foolhardiness, and would not relinquish her duty to Lady Catelyn without a struggle.

The Hound, on the other hand, was less easy to read. Sansa found it hard to believe that he could not earn the gold he had claimed to want in some, far easier way. Mayhaps he had been driven by guilt, for standing by when they beat her and killed her father and her wolf, though she had never begrudged him it. But that seemed so unlikely, so like a song. A pure knight paying a debt to a maiden. Sansa could have laughed. Cocking her head to the side like a starling and studying him, his scarred face passive in the dying light, she wondered.

* * *

In the end, it was Brienne who raised the matter. An uncomfortable silence had descended around the fire, pregnant and heavy. Her eyes passing in frank search between Sansa's expression of studied calm and Sandor's unfazed self-assurance, finally she cleared her throat and spoke with a hard edge in her voice.

"I expect that you will be eager to re-start you journey, ser. You have not much light remaining."

Throwing a bone casually into the flames and wiping a hand on his breeches, Sandor shrugged. "Have it your way." Sansa watched him in faint surprise and a curious sense of dismay, staring while he climbed to his feet with a faint groan and walked casually to Stranger. As he untied the destrier and re-arranged his packs, the Hound threw back a casual call to Sansa:

"Better chirp your courtesies then, Little Bird, thank your knight for her bravery and honour. You're not like to see her again."

Uncomprehendingly, Sansa blinked. "Why - I don't…"

With an air of long-suffering patience, the Hound interrupted: "I don't plan on bringing them with us, girl. Hurry up."

Almost before Sansa could take in his meaning, Brienne was standing, sword drawn, with a fierce glint in her eye. "Do not mistake me, Ser. You presume that because I am a woman I am afraid of you. Lady Sansa remains with me."

Sandor hadn't bothered drawing his blade, or even letting go of Stranger's bridle. "You're not afraid of me. I think you are a fool for it, but you're not afraid. Doesn't matter, the girl still comes with me. I'm bigger than you, I'm better fed than you, and I like killing a lot better than you do. Your steel is poor, you're out of practice, and that squire of yours needs you to take him to a maester at first light. If you insist on letting me cut your throat I will, but you're no risk taker, and the boy means more to you than that. No, you're not afraid - not stupid either, but you're soft. I'm going, and you're staying. You already know that."

There was a long, terrible pause. Brienne's teeth were gritted, the muscles on her arms taut. But the fire in her eyes was faltering already, Sansa could see. And when she lowered her sword and spat into the dying flames with a bitter expression carved into her face, Sansa realised with shame that was relieved. _Seven save me, I must be mad. _

Shyly, Sansa took a step towards the big woman and placed a hand lightly on her forearm. "I'll be alright," she said with a sad smile which Brienne did not return. And then, pausing to bend and kiss the sleeping squire on his forehead, she walked tentatively towards Stranger.


	20. Chapter 20

The hour they passed on Stranger's back was filled by Sansa with chattering, empty conversation. It was clear from the Hound's responses that his fondness for banal pleasantries had not grown since King's Landing. But Sansa carried on talking anyway, because talking wasn't thinking, and thinking now would be dangerous. Too many unanswered questions swam around in her head. And underneath those lay the questions she had resolutely refused to ask herself, questions which she was afraid she knew the answer to and had buried for weeks now. Longer, probably.

She was glad of the dim evening when they dismounted, so as not to have to meet the glinting grey eyes with all their narrowed calculation. But as he lifted her down from the saddle, she was caught instead by their surroundings.

"Oh." she whispered, a little warily. "Do you think this is best?"

They had come to rest at a bare, rocky peak, open to the wind and naked of any growth except a little yellow moss. When she turned to look at the Hound, all she could make out of his face was the glint of his teeth.

"Down there, girl." He turned her head, pointing to a rough-looking thicket of gorse and brambles.

"Under_neath_." The word answered the unspoken question in Sansa's gaze. Crossing to the bushes in three long strides, he lowered himself to an unseen shelf of rock and from there pulled aside the undergrowth.

"Here." he held out a hand. When Sansa paused nervously, he motioned wordlessly, beckoning to her. Obediently, Sansa moved to the little precipice and looked over, to see that a steep path of mud and rubble proceeded from the bushes. The drop had been negligible to the Hound, but the darkness and the height of it made Sansa nervous. As she bent, examining it from each angle, Sandor seemed to grow impatient and, making an amused disparaging noise in the back of his throat, scooped her up around the waist and lifted her down to stand next to him on the little step. Unstable, Sansa brought out a hand to grip his forearm. The size of the boulder forced them flush against one another.

"Hop down, Little Bird," Sandor rasped after a moment, taking the lead as he spoke. In the dark, they fumbled against each other as they made their unsteady way down the track. It was little more than a stoney slide towards the bottom.

"On you go," said Sandor, nodding. "I'll need to take Stranger round the long way. It's safe enough, I slept here three nights ago," he responded to the question in her gaze, letting go of her clammy hand as he spoke.

"I'll be back before you get down there, I'll wager, the rate you're going at." He did not smile, but his tone was soft enough, receding as he made his rapid way back up.

When she was sure she was alone, Sansa gave up all pretence of elegance and lowered herself to a near sitting position, using her hands to slide down the dry dirt. The stones cut into her palms and the earth smelt musky and old, but landing sooner than she expected on flat ground, Sansa stood up to find herself in a tiny, overgrown hollow, overhung on one side by a great stone shelf with a trickle of water running down it, and protected on the other by two huge, gnarled trees whose branches intertwined at their crowns, to leave only a peek of midnight-blue sky winking at the top. Thick moss carpeted the ground she stood on, and bushes insulated her from the chill wind. Brushing off her hands and skirts absentmindedly, Sansa gazed around in pleasant bewilderment.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Sandor's return, having tied Stranger up out of sight. "It's _warm," _she said in surprise, casting off her cloak and stretching her arms out.

Sandor nodded. "An old woman told me of it when I was with the red priest," he growled. "It's hot water under the ground. That's how the trees grow."

Sansa gave a quiet cry of joy. "We had a pool like that in Winterfell, in the godswood, you could bathe in it even if it snowed, it was _beautiful_, and sometimes-" She trailed off, the bittersweet feeling of nostalgia wrapping around her throat."It was very nice," she continued in a different tone.

Sandor dropped his glance from her face, and said nothing. The silence suddenly seemed to ring in Sansa's ears, and she turned to pick up her cloak and fold it neatly against a tree trunk. When the Hound cleared his throat, she steeled herself for some remark on how naive she was, to still be thinking of things like that.

"Your father was a good man. That's why they killed him." his voice seemed a little forced, but his tone was solemn. Sansa turned to stare at him, wide-eyed. When he said nothing else, she made herself speak.

"It was my fault. I told Queen Cersei what he planned to do, because I thought it would make them love me."

Sandor snorted. "They knew. Cersei knew. Ned Stark was too bloody honourable not to let them know." He cleared his throat. "You were a child. The fault wasn't yours."

And mayhaps it was the smell of the earth that so reminded her of Winterfell, or the fact that she had never voiced that fear aloud before now, or simply that she missed them all so much, but his words sent the tears spilling down her cheeks. There was little room in the hollow to move away, but she turned hurriedly to hide them, wiping her jawline with her sleeve where they dripped. She heard Sandor turn too, and walk away to unpack the horse.

_It's a strange thing, this thing with this man_. Strange that two people could spend so many hours together and say so little, and say so little and learn so much. She was different now for it. More thoughtful. More cynical. Stronger, too, maybe. Had she changed him?

Faintly, she heard the sound of water splashing from the direction he had gone. When he returned, his hair was wet and he wore only a tunic of linen above his breeches, with the sleeves rolled up to show the burnt flesh of his arm. Despite herself, Sansa blushed.

* * *

There had been no need to light a fire in the warmth of the hollow, with their bellies full. The ground beneath them heated their bedrolls, cramped close together in the small space afforded by the rocks and trees. It felt safe here.

Even with the warmth and the dusky stillness of the night, Sansa lay awake for longer than usual. "I'm sorry about your arm," she whispered eventually.

Sandor chuckled. "Had worse."

Sansa took a breath.

"I didn't want to go with Lem and the others, it was… they wanted the gold."

The Hound made no reply. After a few minutes of listening, Sansa's eyelids became heavy, and she gave herself over to sleep.

* * *

Some noise or movement startled her awake. By the patch of sky visible it was clear that the hour of the wolf had not yet passed, and there was a sharp, chilling bite in the air now. The stars blinked at her as she blinked back, lying on her side with her face turned slightly upward and her hair in a russet pile above her head. By the sound of his steady breathing, the Hound was asleep. She listened to his drowsy, snuffling sounds as she lay. But after a moment he gave a strange huff, louder than the others, and there he rolled over, and suddenly his mouth was on her ear and his arm was flung sleepily across her chest. Embarrassed, the breath caught in her throat. An accident. But his sigh was hot and persevering and she could not make herself move away, letting it warm her inside and out as she lay frozen under his arm. _For the night is cold, and so am I. _She was half asleep, she did not know what she was doing. And then the arm lifted slightly so that she rolled back into him a little, and she wasn't expecting it; she couldn't have stopped it, and now his lips were on her neck and she did not wriggle away. Frozen in the tingle of loneliness, she stayed. The feeling awakened her. Under his arm, under his mouth, she stayed. He was breathing hard and heavy. _He's asleep he's asleep he's asleep no he isn't. _

The arm moved. Down. It gave her a rolling, jolting feeling as it curled around her belly, lightning and a rearing horse. The jolt shivered down to the bottom of her torso and continued, shuddering into her depths. Sansa did not know that she wanted it to stop. And still he could be unconscious. _Mother have mercy. _

In the pitch dark of the night, it would have done her no good to look into his face, even if she had been able to. Experimentally, Sansa shuffled half an inch backwards, closer to him. She hardly knew what she was doing, only that the feeling that had been building for so long felt heavier than ever before, close to bursting.

The mouth on her throat was half open, and the breath no longer came steady. Closing her eyes and shakily swallowing, she allowed the harsh lips to travel up behind her jawline, and she could not tell herself that he was asleep now. Her mouth fell open as she felt his pant against her, and when his teeth scraped her earlobe she let out a half-smothered little whimper of surprise that could barely have been audible even to him, close as he was. With that he grunted, and pulled her hard against him so that her back pressed into his torso, never allowing his lips to move away from her. Her hair came down over her neck and forehead, and when she moved her hand to push it away it collided with his. Gently nudging her arm above her head as he swept the strands from her face, Sandor pushed himself up so that he leaned on his forearms over her. She felt dwarfed by him. His hair tickled her cheek as he bent again into the crook of her neck, and still his lips had not touched hers.

When he ventured toward her chest, she made no move to stop him. Instead she tilted her head back as his fingers hooked in to the hem of her bodice, her bosom heaving a little in discomposure. His hand cupped one breast as the other wrapped around her back, pulling her closer.

Without warning, his movement stopped, as though the Hound had thought better of his actions. After a heartbeat, he leaned upwards and away from her; and the hand on her breast travelled up to her throat, one strong thumb pushing her chin upwards to face him. In the dark, she could barely make out the angles of his face or the glint of his eyes, though she felt them search her. Almost without realising what she was doing, she reached her arm up to curl her fingers at the back of his neck, twitching slightly in a clumsy caress. This seemed to be answer enough for the Hound. With a suppressed groan he brought his frame back down, and his lips found her face, and then collided with her mouth in a forceful kiss that robbed Sansa of all breath. His mouth was hard without being harsh, the burnt corner rougher but not unpleasant. His tongue pushed tenderly into her own, wet and warm.

Sansa's fingers moved of their own accord to Sandor's face and neck. The Hound again moved his hands to her chest and back, working roughly at the laces there. It occurred to Sansa somewhere in the back of her mind that if she were going to stop him, she would have to do it now. She did not move. The dress was falling off her shoulders now and she was helping it, wriggling out of the sleeves as Sandor pulled the material down to her belly button. _Seven save me_. Her lips felt cold as the kiss broke, and his mouth moved instead to her breast.

She felt him touch it, felt it respond to his touch in the cold air and felt the flush up her neck as his mouth closed over it. Heart battering her ribcage, she let her hands move under the neck of his tunic to feel the taut muscles of his upper back. In response, she felt his left hand shift to her leg and slide upwards, taking the material of her skirt with it. When the fabric was bunched at her hip his hand travelled again up her leg, unbarred by material. His eager kiss spread freely across her chest and abdomen now, up her throat and back to her mouth, her ear, her chin even. Neither gave any pretence of composure: The breath rattled shakily out of Sansa as she trembled beneath the Hound, and a husky growl escaped him as his hands explored her.

She lifted her hips to allow him to remove her dress completely, steadying herself against his stomach as she did so. Their movement had wrinkled up his shirt and her fingers met bare flesh and hair, shocking her. An instant later the tunic was removed and now it was skin against hot skin in soft friction. His hands were knotted in her hair, but one broke free to slide to her hip and touch the fabric there. With a tiny nod, Sansa shifted, and the cloth was gone, leaving her naked under him.

Immediately, Sandor slowed his movements, running calmer hands over her. Minutes passed before he touched her lower abdomen, and more again before his thumb brushed between her legs. When it did, he sent a shudder through her unlike anything she had known before.

"Little Bird," he breathed, his voice little more than a gravelly whisper.

He lowered his mouth to her inner thighs, kissing the flesh there as his lips moved upwards. When they reached the point they sought, a quiet cry rose unbidden to Sansa's lips. She had not known it would be like this.

The Hound had one hand at his breeches, working at the laces, and the other behind her head, tugging her face softly toward his as he brought his kiss back to her face. And then she felt a hard weight fall against her open thigh, and his hand was on it, guiding it to her entrance, and he stopped his kiss to lean his forehead against hers. Closing her eyes, Sansa braced herself. The thrust was slow and gentle, but shocking all the same, and the pain was sharp and aching at once. It came again, and again, each time the pain swelling inside her, until she bit her lip hard enough to draw blood and a tear escaped. But with a final, acute pang the sting lessened, leaving only the pounding ache. Screwing her eyes up and nestling her head in the Hound's neck helped enough for her to bear it, and after a while the throbbing abated a little.

Sandor twined his fingers in her hair again, moving steadily, kissing wherever he could reach. As his movements quickened his breath came in heavy pants. It was strange, Sansa thought, that a man could be so disarmed, so like a wild animal and yet so tender in this. Her arms tightened around his neck. Still flinching slightly as he pushed faster than ever into her, she found herself breathing heavily too, unable to slow herself down. Just as she felt she could no longer take it, Sandor lifted his head.

"Sansa." His voice was raw, unlike she had heard him before. And then with one, final, slow thrust, he collapsed on to her, breath coming heavy in his great chest. Her hands came to his face, caressing his burnt and unburnt cheek, her thumb brushing his lower lip. He lowered his head and gripped her to his chest, hand running up her thigh past her buttocks and to the small of her back. He whispered something she couldn't hear.

Sansa wriggled out from under his weight, and turned to face him, the first grey light of the pre-dawn outlining his form. When she touched his chest, she found it slick with sweat and still heaving. Her fingers traced curiously over him, over each scar and each hard knot of muscle, and up to the features of his face. When she paused to look in his eyes she saw they were closed and, thinking that he had fallen asleep, she turned away from him, to curl up on the bedroll beside his. But his arms came round her, sheltering her from the chill, one hand cupping her breast and the other the flesh of her hip. After that it was easy to let sleep take her.


End file.
